


Performance

by Rod



Series: Practice Makes Perfect [3]
Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: First Time, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rod/pseuds/Rod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's view of his friendship with Danny and what he nearly did to Chris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I have done some truly stupid things in my time, but this one takes the biscuit. Hell, it takes the entire biscuit tin! What was I thinking? Was I thinking at all? Is it too late change my mind, to phone up and make some excuse?

The last question at least I have an answer for, as the doorbell rings to announce the arrival of my 'guest'. I open the door to find him leaning there insolently, perfectly preened and ready to go. "Hi, I'm Danny," he says, just in case I was in any doubt.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. That's always the way with real stupidity though, at least if Chris is to be believed.

I had been forced to use a public phone box to contact HQ, since my mobile's battery had died and Chris was off on escort duty with some bigwig or other. I missed him. I always miss him, not that I've ever told him that, but it's only recently that I've realised quite how much I miss him. He has, all unknowingly, given me back a joie de vivre that I thought was long dead. I feel so much more alive when he's about, forcing me to come up with another brilliant plan to haul his arse out of whatever fire he's got it into this time. When he's not here watching my back, the world really does seem duller and greyer. Soppy and stupid, I know, but there you go.

I still don't know how it happened, this infatuation I have with my partner. It wasn't love at first sight or anything so dramatic. Oh, I knew he was handsome enough when we first met, but it's not like the world disappeared into soft focus and choirs of angels started singing out that he was the one for me. After all, as far as I knew then I was straight.

He wasn't my first partner, not by a long chalk, but he was the first that I actually paid any attention to. I prefer to work alone — no, that's not fair, I just hate having a partner. I had a partner, as in worked in a team of two, exactly once in my MI6 days and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. After that one time, I didn't have partners. Malone sometimes took it into his head to pair me with other people, but I basically ignored them. Either they kept up or they didn't, and more often than not they didn't.

When Malone called me into his office to assign my latest victim, I really didn't pay that much attention, just nodded in the right places. Chris sat there glowering, so I upped my level of civility just enough to be annoying and left it at that.

Basically, I froze him out, or at least tried to. I didn't want a partner, even one as competent as he was, so I did my level best to ignore his presence. He retaliated by getting in my face as much as possible, which he seemed to have a real talent for doing. It was childish of us, and it couldn't last once we started being the remotest bit professional.

The thing that really softened my attitude was Chris' amazing ability to find the nearest source of trouble and fall straight into it. At first I was hauling him back from the brink out of self-preservation; Malone would have my balls if I let him get killed. It was therefore my solemn duty to watch his back, prevent him sitting or standing on bombs and so forth. It was another kind of game, in other words.

After a while it dawned on me that I would genuinely miss him if he died, that somehow or other we'd become friends while we had bickered our way through mission after mission.

Then he went missing in Richmond, offering his kidneys as bait for some organ thieves. I was concerned, and said as much when Malone declared that Chris was on his own resources. For my sins, I was ordered to get some sleep and come back fresh in the morning.

The first time I woke up after a nightmare of his sightless eyes staring up at me, I told myself that this was a friend's concern for someone in danger, no more. The second time, when I woke with tears streaming down my face, unnerved me enough to make me wonder. The third time, when I was screaming at them to take my kidneys if only they'd let him live, I knew that what I felt was beyond friendship.

Until then, I hadn't realised just how much a part of my life Chris had become, and how little I could afford to lose him. For all our sparring, he'd brought me further out into the world than anyone else had ever managed.

I spent the rest of the night in a confused jumble of dreams in which I cried over his body, kissed him, was kissed by him, willingly traded places with him, had wild sex with him, kicked the crap out of him for being such an impulsive pillock, held him to stop them getting at him, and so on. In the morning, it took me the better part of an hour of concentrated ruthlessness to erase the traces of my nightmares.

It was only when Chris turned up, battered but whole, that I could stop fighting to keep the worry off my face. I cared for him, I trusted him and I wanted him, and that scared me more than anything else in the world. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I was disgusted with myself for lusting after a man, it's just that... as I said earlier, my first partnership was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and I was afraid of making this the worst thing that ever happened to Chris.

Knowing that I lacked the willpower to ignore him and afraid that I didn't have enough won't-power to keep my hands off him, I tried to bury myself in blondes instead. Sublimation, I think the psychologists call it. Take it from me, it doesn't work. None of the relationships lasted more than five minutes, none of them made me feel any less miserable, and I made some amazingly stupid choices even for me. Abigail Prentice was the classic; if I'd had any sense at all I'd have listened to Chris, but no, smooth Sam Curtis had to charge head first into a desperate romance with a contract killer. I'm surprised Malone didn't have me standing on a chair reciting the first rule for the next week.

It was lonely. I wanted Chris, but I couldn't have him. I didn't even dare hint to him, for fear I'd lose what little of him I had. Sometimes I briefly deluded myself that he cared for me as more than just a partner, but I always got myself back under control before I did anything stupid. Well, more stupid. It wasn't a healthy situation, something had to give.

So like I said I was standing there in a phone box, missing Chris and feeling more sorry for myself than usual after Malone chewed me out for not taking better care of CI5 property, when something gave. My eyes fell on the business cards that littered the place, advertising carefully unspecified services, and I found myself jotting down a few phone numbers. For the men.

I'm not completely sure what I was thinking. I told myself it was research, that when I declared my love for Chris I wanted to know what I was doing afterwards — in the unlikely event that there was an afterwards. I suspect I was trying to bury myself in men since burying myself in women wasn't working. Whatever the reason, when I got home I called the first name on my list, 'Danny.' I was pleased: it only took three attempts to get up the courage to phone him.

He had a nice voice, courteous without being obsequious, reminding me of the way that Chris can turn on the charm when he needs to. I squashed that thought quickly. I gave him my details before I could lose my nerve, and he admitted that he was free that evening. Did I have anything in particular in mind, he asked. Not really, I said, no longer certain that I had a mind. Any preferences then? "Nothing fancy," I said, a trifle too emphatically. "I just need..." I trailed off, not sure what it was I needed.

"I understand," he said gently, managing to calm me and irritate me at the same time. On the one hand, he wasn't pushing me. On the other hand, he couldn't possibly understand. He wound up our negotiations in those same tones, not pushing, and agreed to be at my place around eight.

Good. That left me plenty of time to get out a bottle of Merlot (nothing too expensive tonight) and try to drown my second thoughts. I didn't think I could face the evening completely sober. It's funny, I can face down a room full of thugs and not feel the slightest twitch of fear, but the prospect of sex had me sweating in panic.

Which brings me back to the here and now, with Danny (assuming that's his real name) standing on my doorstep. Even after a couple of glasses of wine I'm still so nervous that I retreat behind my professional barriers, not giving anything away. The look I give him is meant to be appreciative, but it turns into a full threat evaluation scan before I can stop it.

He's younger than I expected, I suppose, much younger than I am. He isn't the stick figure some teenagers idolise though, there's real muscle underneath that tight clothing. He's got blond hair (nice and short), blue eyes (paler than Chris'), a narrower face in general, maybe a touch shorter... damn it Curtis, stop the comparisons.

"Well, you'd better come in then," I say with as much sang-froid as I can muster, and let him past me.

I settle myself back on the settee as he finishes scanning the room. Apparently all is to his satisfaction, as he doesn't hesitate when I gesture him to sit. For all his relaxed attitude, which I have to say is immensely reassuring, he sits at the far end of the settee from me. I'm a little relieved that he isn't rushing this, just giving me some space to get used to him. I reach for the bottle to top up my glass, and only then does it occur to me that I'm not being a very good host. "Would you like a drink?" I ask, waving the label in his direction.

"Thank you, but no," he says a little too fast. Interesting. Maybe he just doesn't drink on duty, it is supposed to affect your performance after all. I shrug, fill my glass again and take another sip of Dutch (or in this case Italian) courage while I try to work out what to do next.

Evidently I take too long, because Danny is the next one to speak. "What should I call you, sir?"

I think I understand what he's doing, offering me a chance to lie or fantasise if that's what I need, but I look at him quizzically anyway. It's the tone of his voice that intrigues me; this time he does sound obsequious. I do believe he's trying to manipulate me. There's a number of possible reasons why, and I'd better find out which applies. The most optimistic option I can think of at the moment is that he's angling for a bonus.

"Sam," is all I say. I don't honestly think I could cope with pretending to be someone else for this, for all my training. Hell, it's taking all my training to avoid breaking and running, and this is my own home.

Studying him, I'm positive that he's trying to manipulate me. He's taken in his surroundings, and now he's studying me as much as I'm watching him, even if he is trying to disguise it as an appreciative look. He's more intelligent than I'd given him credit for, though admittedly I don't give much credit to prostitutes.

I've never even considered using a prostitute before tonight, male or female, so I'd accepted the stereotype of a foolish, pathetic, empty-headed person trying to make ends meet in several senses. If I was feeling particularly benevolent and unrealistic, I'd think of all those classic black and white films showing off a hooker with a heart of gold, someone none too bright who helps the hero to her own cost. Danny doesn't fit either of those clichés, which makes me all the more interested in what does make him tick.

Once again, I manage to out-wait him by accident. "Do I look the way you expected?" he asks. A curious question, I can't immediately figure out why he asked. At least that obsequious note has gone. I decide to give him an honest answer, and see what he makes of it.

"Not really, no." He's surprised, raising an eyebrow back at me. I spell it out. "You're confident and you're smart. You've come into my place without the slightest hesitation, which takes confidence, and you've been planning since you sat down." This, from me, is a mild compliment, but it seems to disconcert him.

"Oh. You get to be confident, I mean you have to be confident if you're around for any length of time, otherwise you don't get the work. But smart?" Yes, definitely smart. Even if I have confused him, I can see him revising his plans and trying very hard to conceal it.

"I know when I'm being looked over. You've been trying to work out how to manipulate me." The MI6th sense, a former colleague used to call it. Knowing when you're being studied is one of those things you pick up from the intelligence services, together with paranoia and a non-existent private life.

"Kind of. But probably not for the reasons that you're thinking of."

He sounds annoyed, probably not used to being seen through, and there's an element of threat to his words. I automatically wipe my emotions off my face and watch carefully. "Oh? Do go on." My cool reaction unsettles him, but he rides it out well.

"Well, you struck me as the sort of person who likes being in control." Danny gestures at the room in general, which I have to admit I probably keep tidier than most people would. I do allow that he's right, though; while I don't automatically try to take charge of everything, I do feel much more comfortable when I know exactly what's going on. Another relic of my MI6 days. "But you haven't done this before," he says, gesturing at himself this time, "which presents something of a problem."

A neat summation of the situation. I have to laugh a little, he's much better at reading me than I thought. Either that or losing my mind has meant losing my touch as well. "See, I said you were smart. So have you come up with any solutions?"

"Um. Not really." I think he's being honest, but he looks slightly distracted. "Do you know what you want to do?"

If I knew what I wanted to do, I wouldn't have had to call him. "Now, no. Eventually..." Eventually I want to know how to make Chris happy. I don't know what will do that, and I've no easy way of finding out, so there's only one safe answer. "Everything?"

God, that sounded so pathetic, I'm not surprised Danny smirks. I sound like some needy little jerk, desperate for a fuck. "Let's leave 'eventually' alone for now," he says tactfully, "though you should know that there are places I don't go."

There's genuine steel in those last words, and I can imagine why. Prostitutes of all sorts make easy targets, and in the course of several investigations I've heard of all sorts of things happening to and with them that I really don't want to think about. I find myself staring at my wine glass, looking at it from the point of view of someone who doesn't know whether or not his host will cross the line. My point of view, at other times and with different, deadlier hosts. "Ah. I see."

"How about we start off small and see where it goes?"

As plans go, I've known Chris to spontaneously generate them with more details than this one. He could mean pretty much anything, and my earlier nervousness is back with reinforcements. "That sounds reasonable," I temporise, hoping to encourage him into saying more before he tries anything on.

"Could I just hold you, just to start?" It sounds innocent enough, but his voice rings false. He's too hesitant; the real Danny that I baited into talking earlier has given way to an act for my benefit, triggering my old paranoid reflexes. He spots me focusing in on him — God, he's sharp! — and protests. "It's the smallest thing I can think of!"

That at least sounded genuine, so I force myself to smile. "OK, let's try that," I say gently, and I can see he's no more convinced by my tone of voice than I was by his. He gives me a confident smile and eases himself over, leaving me plenty of time and room to stop him if I want to. Considerate of him, or maybe he's afraid of me throwing him out if things get out of hand.

Then he just slips an arm round behind me and rests his head on my chest, leaving me feeling like a lemon. I do know what to do in these circumstances, I've had to comfort my share of rescued hostages, it's just never come easily to me. I hold him to me, silently promising that it's safe here, and muscle by muscle I force myself to relax.

Actually, I could get used to this shared warmth thing, and so could Danny to judge by the relaxed smile playing around his mouth. There's really only one problem with this setup that I need to tell him about.

"Danny?" He makes a soft little noise, reminiscent of the contented grunts Chris makes when he burrows under the sheets, which triggers a whole host of unwanted memories of sharing hotel rooms with my partner and spending half the night forcing myself not to move, not to reach out and touch him. With an effort, I get my thoughts back to my present discomfort.

"Your jacket." This time Danny's grunt is more questioning, and he sounds so exactly like Chris when he's been daydreaming that I have to smile. "It's digging in all over the bloody place!" I say in mock annoyance.

I feel rather than hear him trying not to giggle as we part, and accept his apology with great dignity. He tries hard to sound like he means it, but his eyes are a dead giveaway. So are mine, probably. Then he catches me on the hop. "Shall I take it off, or would you like to?"

"Me?" The response is startled out of me before I can control my panic at the mere thought of undressing someone, even to the limited extent of taking a jacket off a willing volunteer. Well, there went my reputation with him as someone cool, calm and collected.

"Kind of like practice?" Danny offers, trying to calm me down again. "Touching me without sex getting involved." I appreciate the way he's trying not to push, but it doesn't help that much. Sex will get involved this evening. If it doesn't I may as well go and drown myself now, because I'll never get up the courage to do it with Chris.

I'm psyching myself up when Danny stands. I've still got my hands on his shoulders, so it's a case of follow him or let go. After a moment's hesitation, I stand too. I've got to do this. I _will_ do this. He looks at me warily, sensing my unease, but as he stares into my eyes I see the wariness melt away as he consciously puts himself back into my hands. It helps that he trusts me, at least that far, and he suddenly seems very small and vulnerable standing there in front of me. Gently, as if he were fragile china, I ease the jacket over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

I was right when I said he was no stick figure. His simple white vest shows off the musculature of his arms nicely, and hints at more beneath. He clearly works out, and it looks good on him, like a slimmer, younger version of my partner.

Holding that image in mind, I kiss him. Danny, my Chris-but-not-Chris, responds by kissing me back and holding me close. His hands knead my back and mine, having nothing better to do, stroke his flanks. He makes that little noise and again and presses me tighter, kissing all the while.

I must do this. I _will_ do this.

I tease his vest loose of his trousers, then in a single movement pull it over his head. His moan is pure, liquid sex and he flushes as he scrabbles at my shirt. It soon joins his singlet on the floor, and we kiss again, hard. I try to lose myself in the sensation, try to stop thinking.

I can do this. I _will_ to do this.

I start kissing down his neck, clinically noting how sensitive he is there, and find the real hotspot below his ear. I lick and kiss him, driving him wild and making him moan uncontrollably, just like... just like I did. I close my eyes against that image, trying to will it away, but I'm fighting against years of suppressed horror. I am not like that, I'm not the monster James Morgan was. I'm trying to give pleasure to someone who wants it, not force myself on some helpless idiot who trusted me. Distantly, I notice that Chris — that Danny has pulled away from me. I can't let it matter. I have a job to do here, a nightmare to get past.

I can do this. I _will_ do this.

"You _will_ burst a blood vessel if you don't calm down!" Danny says sharply, giving me a much needed verbal slap across the face. I must have been talking out loud. The embarrassment at losing control like that just makes me feel more worthless, stupid and pathetic. "Come on," he says more gently, "sit down here."

I try to follow orders, but my legs won't obey me. I nearly fall, but Danny catches me and lowers me to the sofa. Then he cradles me to him just like Carl did when he found me, and the walls that I've spent years building around my shameful past come crashing down. I'm 22 again, abused and hurting and so emotionally crippled that all I can think to do is to crawl away somewhere no one will ever find me and die. The fact that the rapist is dead doesn't help at all.

Danny, like Carl before him, doesn't let me get away. He holds me, reassuring me with his very presence that there is a point to living, letting me cry on his shoulder without comment or judgement until I'm done. It's quite a while before I feel safe enough to sit up, and even then Danny doesn't let go of me completely. He leaves an arm loosely curled around my waist, letting me know that he's still there for me.

"Well, that was a total fiasco." I can't look at him, embarrassed as I am by that breakdown. I thought I was past Morgan, thought I'd sealed away the memories of him so that he couldn't hurt me again, and now I find that the pain is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. I'm never going to be rid of him, am I?

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Danny says lightly. "You are one hell of a kisser." Even in my despair I have to laugh at that. He sounds so unremittingly good-humoured that he reminds me of Chris again, which somehow cheers me a little. He reinforces this by putting his hand to my chin and turning my head until I can see his face. He looks concerned and unafraid, ready to help but refusing to judge, almost like this was an everyday occurrence. Maybe it is for him, maybe he gets lots of men who can't get past foreplay without freezing up. "Want to talk about it?"

"No." I look away again; how can I talk about Morgan to him? I can't tell the people I do trust, my friends (such as they are) who know the risks of the job. How the hell would I be able to tell someone I picked up off the street that I've been raped?

Chris would have backed off and left me to sulk. Heck, even Backup wouldn't interrogate me while I'm in this mood. Danny doesn't know me well enough to know what dangerous ground he's on, and ploughs ahead. "OK," he says. "Mind if I talk?" I make an affirmative noise; it's not like it's going to make any difference.

"I want to tell you about a friend of mine, a guy by the name of Tommy. He was a rent boy like me, but everyone liked him. He'd got this fat little face that made him look so innocent that even the people who ripped him off felt sorry for him, and he'd got this trick of flashing his eyes that turned his clients to mush. Green they were, bottle green, darker than yours.

"Tommy had his future all planned out. He was going to find himself a rich widow, and either marry her or live off her. It was a running joke with us, we all used to ask him why he was out clubbing instead of cruising the tea rooms. Needless to say, it didn't work out. Tommy was always short of money, and always losing what he did have. Some days it would be a cert at the races, some days the nuns with the collection tins had been extra persuasive. It was always something different, but he was always broke.

"So one day he found he needed money, and he took the only job available. It was a dodgy job, he knew that — hell, everyone knew that — but he needed the money. It was a lot of money, after all. All he would say was that he'd turned up, and like a fool he'd taken the drink he'd been given. He said he'd blacked out and couldn't remember anything, but the way he said it... he knew. I saw what they'd done. He'd been fucked repeatedly — raped — until he was bleeding. He'd been beaten to a pulp, and they'd cut him.... When they were done with him, early in the morning, they bundled him into a car and dumped him in the streets. He had to stagger home. He could barely stand but no one... _no one_ lifted a finger to help. 'The little faggot got everything he deserved,' was all anyone said."

"When he got home, I put him to bed. I held on to him for hours until he finally cried himself to sleep. Then I went out to get what I could to ease the pain, buy all his favourite foods, even one of those trashy romance novels he loved. I was going to pamper him until he was better. Except that by the time I got back, he'd gone. They... they fished his body out of the river that evening. He'd jumped."

I sit there, numb, as Danny wipes his eyes. What he's told me makes some of our targets sound like angels. I try to find the words to comfort him, but it's not something I'm good at. He doesn't give me the time anyway, turning to face me. "So you'll have to excuse me if I don't believe you when you say you're OK."

He's all but shouting now, trying to stifle his need to cry I think. It's pretty clear from the pain in his voice that this Tommy was more than a friend to him, and that telling me all this has brought the hurt up all over again. If he was trying to shock me out of my funk he's certainly done it, but I don't think that was what he meant to do. Not all of it, anyway. I don't think he'd put himself through that again unless he thought I might do the same as Tommy.

It's my turn to cradle him now, to give him the space to pull himself together. "It's all right," I say soothingly, "I'm not going to do anything like that. I've... I know some of what you've been through." I think of Carl's funeral, of all the might-have-beens I tortured myself with and how the only thing that stopped me breaking down in that pathetically small gathering was Chris' solid, reassuring presence. I know what it's like to lose a father, that's what Carl was to me, but a lover?

Danny pulls away from me, composed now and studying me again. I feel myself colouring; he's earned himself some sort of explanation, but there's so much that I'm not allowed to say, never mind don't want to. "It's complicated," I say defensively. What can I tell him? This touchy-feely emotional stuff is not what I'm good at. "I don't normally do things like this."

He gives me an indulgent smile, looking at our close proximity. "I'd never have guessed," he says, going so heavy on the irony that I know he's referring to the sex not the snivelling. It's an escape route, so I take it.

"Yes well. The reason I called..." Can I tell him? Sam Curtis the expressionless secret agent tells me not to, thinking of the blackmail possibilities. For once I overrule him. Danny's earned something, and as long as I keep it vague there's nothing to blackmail with. "Oh the hell with it, I'm in love."

His look says 'Yes, and?' After a moment he prompts me to carry on. "With?"

"A man I work with." My partner to be exact, and therefore the most untouchable man on the planet as far as I'm concerned. "Of course he's about as straight as they come, but then so was I. We're..." God, how do I explain this without explaining anything classified? "We've got a difficult job. Dangerous, sometimes. A few days ago, I thought he was dead." A couple of months back actually, in Richmond. "He'd gone missing..." No, I can't tell him that Chris had dangled himself as bait to some organleggers. "I had reason to believe..." God that sounds so tight-arsed, he'll never believe anything I say after that. "Oh, it doesn't matter why. I knew I..." damn it Curtis, just say the word... "cared about him, watching out for each other is one of the things we have to do. It's just that waiting for him, knowing there was nothing I could do, it just tore me apart.

"I don't let people close. It isn't smart when the job could kill you." Danny nods at this, reminding me that the life of a prostitute is no sure thing. I'm obscurely grateful for his empathy. "But somehow or other Chris went through all my defences like a hot knife through butter. The worst of it is he wasn't even trying."

"Could you tell me about him?" Danny asks, his curiosity clearly visible.

"Oh God, where do I start? About your height, blue eyes, short spiky brown hair, dimples..." It's the dimples that get me every time. "He's also the untidiest man I've ever met, bossy as all hell and couldn't cook to save his life. He rushes into everything with both feet leaving me to pick up the pieces, he won't listen to a thing I tell him, and there's still no one I'd rather have at my back. He's maddening. If I didn't love him, I'd have to kill him!"

Danny appears to consider this for a moment, as I realise with faint embarrassment quite how gushing I sounded, then nods. "OK," he says and kisses me on the cheek. I choke, suppressing old memories of Morgan's lips again. "Now I know why you were trying so hard you nearly gave _me_ a heart attack, but I don't understand why it was so hard on you."

He wants me to tell him? Fuck, no way! I hide behind the distant mask that has served so well over the years, emotions veering wildly between anger at his presumption and fear of admitting my weakness. Danny just sits there, watching and waiting, while I get myself under some semblance of control. Damn it, that's my tactic with Chris when he gets stroppy, just waiting until he gives in. Danny won't judge me though, I realise. To him, rape is just one of the hazards of life. Maybe it would help talking to someone else, someone anonymous, just this once.

"It was years ago, in a different job. Before I met Chris. I've never told anyone—"

"Then don't tell me." Danny cuts me off emphatically, compassion in his eyes. "I can guess, but I don't need to know." I'm grateful for his understanding, and for once I don't feel pathetic about that gratitude. It was such a struggle, even saying those few words.

God almighty, Morgan really has ruined my life. I thought I was past him, had him locked away with all the other things in my life that I'm not proud of, but no. The moment I come across something that might be love he's there, souring it. I can almost hear him whispering that I'm no better than he is, not really, that I just want Chris for my own gratification and to hell with what he wants.

I laugh, full of bitterness and self-loathing. "It's ironic really. I want to make love to Chris so badly, but when I try to learn how..." I just feel so dirty.

Danny surprises me with a groan. "I've been barking up the wrong tree entirely. You don't need sex at all, you need company!"

OK, I am now officially confused. "What?"

"You," he says poking me in the ribs, "need to learn to relax with someone right here next to you, just doing nothing in particular. Anything else we can talk about. Particularly the sex."

He might have a point there. I've never really learned to relax with people. I've spent too much time undercover, where relaxation could mean death, and I've pretty much been a loner for the rest of my life. Oh, I've shared a few beers with my colleagues now and then, particularly Chris, but I haven't really relaxed even then.

The sex, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish entirely. With Morgan's spectre hanging over it I don't think that putting it off is going to be the answer, and I say as much. To my surprise Danny agrees.

"I meant talking about making love to a man, what it's like, what you can and can't do, everything short of actually doing it."

"Oh." Depersonalising it to an extent. Like a training course, I suppose. Yes, that could do the job. Feeling optimistic for the first time in ages, I smile at him. "You make it sound like such hard work."

"It will be. The test afterwards will be a real doozy!"

Yes, it will. But I'll have done my coursework before I get there.

We talk. Well, mostly Danny talks to start with. He's an amazingly tactile person, constantly touching me to reinforce a point, attract my attention or just to give his hands something to do as far as I can tell. Once I can control myself enough to stop jumping, I do actually find his presence quite soothing, and start responding to his somewhat surreal analysis of the day's news in kind. By some minor miracle I lose track of the time, and it's only when I can't stop myself yawning any more that it's brought home to me just how long we've been sitting here.

"Christ, it's gone midnight!" Danny exclaims.

I rub my suddenly tired eyes and peer at the clock. So it is. "Shit, and I'm on a 6:30 start." We make parting noises, dragging ourselves to our feet. It's only when Danny starts pulling his vest back on that I realise I've been sitting rubbing shoulders with a half naked man all evening, and for the last hour at least I honestly haven't cared. We've been friendly, and no more than that, and I am genuinely relaxed. I don't think I've enjoyed myself so much doing nothing in particular in a long time, if ever.

"Thanks for the evening," Danny says, looking slightly bemused himself. "It's been... different."

"You don't say. That reminds me..." He came here to work, expecting to be paid, and I've kept him here all night. I owe him his fee at the very least, so I'm a bit surprised when he looks startled at the money.

"Sam, I couldn't! I didn't do anything."

"Oh yes you did," I fire back quickly, and force the notes into his hand. "You came here to do a job. If it turned out to be different work to what you and I both thought, it doesn't matter. Besides, I can afford it and you can't." 

He gives in reluctantly, something I don't entirely understand. "All right, but only on the understanding that next time I don't charge for chat. Uh, assuming there is a next time?"

He colours at his own presumption, and I have to smile. He's a friend, how could there not be a next time? "I think that's a fairly safe bet." He smiles back, an easy cheerful grin rather different to the seductive smirk he started with. I stop him at the door, to make sure he understands. "Danny, you're welcome here, any time I'm in."

He doesn't know what to say to that, but the way his smile's threatening to crack his face in two is answer enough. Obviously I wasn't the only one this evening who really needed a friend.

For something that started out a total fiasco, the evening's gone rather well.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm sitting in the lounge bar of the George V, watching the world go by and feeling my vague sensations of unease — more dissatisfaction really — fade away. The Hardacre case is firmly closed, but I am still struggling with the aftermath. Not that anything particularly terrible happened, I just feel the need to be around people whose idea of fun does not include systematically defrauding the Health Service.

I'm not normally a social animal, despite the charm that I've learned to put on over the years. I prefer to be alone, somewhere I don't have to pretend to be anyone other than myself. Sometimes, however, I just need to be around people doing ordinary things. I don't have to be with them, just watching them is enough, but from time to time I have to reassure myself that there are ordinary, halfway decent people out there doing ordinary, halfway decent things. It gives me the strength to carry on being 'a bit of a bastion' as Chris so memorably put it.

Ordinarily I feed this need of mine by going out with my colleagues. It appeases my paranoia to be there with a gang of people that I trust to watch my back. Tonight, unfortunately, everyone else had plans. Backup has a date, which she's certain she's going to sleep through after our three hour drive back to London, Chris is asleep after staying up for thirty six hours straight, Spencer and Richards are on the night shift this week... the list goes on. So I'm here on my own in a pub, trying to prove to myself all over again that I'm not my father.

I'm on my own here, but I'm hardly lonely. There's much too much going on for that. The George appears to be a young people's pub, given the relative scarcity of 'oldies' like myself. There are a few of us around, watching the horde of teenagers and twentysomethings guardedly and exchanging the occasional amused glance at their antics. They aren't too boisterous, though, just having a good time before moving on to the clubs. Even the jukebox is set at a surprisingly moderate volume.

The social dynamics of this place are fascinating. Everyone appears friendly, happy to talk to anyone they meet going to and from the bar, but there's a lot of people who seem to be looking for someone. Mostly the older people looking for and finding younger girls and boys. It's a meat market in other words, a neutral meeting place for the Desperately Seekings who don't want to invite trouble home. If I'd been properly paranoid I'd have thought of using something like it to anonymise myself with Danny, though I was hardly at my most brilliant when I phoned him.

I'm glad I did phone him. He's actually become a remarkably good friend, even if he is a manipulative little sod sometimes. He keeps making little comments and dangling his superior knowledge of sex in front of me until I give in and bite. I could prolong it — Danny has nothing on Chris in full wheedle mode, though I dare say I'm a touch biased there — but since I actually do want to know the answer there doesn't seem to be much point. I surprise him now and then, but he usually gets his revenge. The night I asked him straight out about buggery, for instance, he was shocked. Somehow or other I still ended up with half my hand up his arse and a distinct bulge in my trousers.

"Penny for 'em?" asks a familiar voice at my elbow with impeccable timing, and it is only by dint of years of training and having Chris as a partner that I manage not to choke on my beer.

"Danny! Good to see you, how are things? You're not here working are you?" I ask slightly more quietly.

"Well I was going to, but my plans are flexible," he grins. "Mostly I thought I'd offer a public service by getting to you before someone decided to shark you. The girls can be quite... forward when they put their minds to it. How about yourself? Here for the dust-busting or just a night out?"

I grin back easily. Danny's been amusing himself coming up with ever more ludicrous things that my job might be, all carefully crafted to be as far from any plausible truth as possible. This week apparently I'm an international vacuum cleaner salesman, constantly on the lookout to stop my competitors giving me a nasty suck. "I think the phrase is 'chilling out'. It's been one of those days, and I just wanted to check that there was a world out there."

I gesture in the general direction of the rest of the pub with my pint glass, and Danny raises his own in salute. "Yeah, we're out here," he says quietly, then brightens. "So what do you reckon to Arsenal's chances this year?"

* * * * *

"'Nother one?"

I give careful thought to Danny's offer. I'm reasonably sure it's his round, but something is not quite right about this. Blowed if I can think what. "How many is that?" I ask, trying to put my finger on something, even if it isn't the problem.

Danny concentrates. "Many," he says, helpfully. Let's see, I had one before he arrived, another at the bar with him, another when we found this free table, and since then there's been at least a few more.

"Fuck," I say succinctly.

"Not here please," Danny groans. "The landlord thinks we're nice young men."

I ignore him. I'm more interested in cataloguing my current physical state, and am coming to a rather horrifying conclusion. "I'm drunk."

Danny peers at me. "We're in a pub."

"Yes."

"And you're drunk."

"Yes."

"I'm drunk too."

"That's nice."

"I must be a bit slow here, but I can't see the problem."

"Problem? Who said there was a problem?"

"You did. Didn't you?" Danny doesn't sound entirely certain, and I congratulate myself on being such a well-trained agent that I can bamboozle him even when I'm in this state. Unfortunately it seems that I don't manage to keep that off my face, as Danny waves a finger at me and shouts "Aha!" in triumph. "You did! Er, what is the problem?"

"I'm drunk."

"You said that before."

"I don't get drunk. My father gets drunk. I just get..." I can't think of the word.

"Relaxed?" Danny offers.

"That'll do." I don't really relax, not with other people about, but it's near enough the mark.

He looks me up and down carefully. "Well, right now you're definitely relaxed as a newt. Enjoy it."

"That's the thing," I say, "I can't enjoy it. I don't know what I'll do next, and I don't like that. I like being in control of me, it feels comfortable. When I'm drunk, I might do something wrong. I get all maudlin and pitiful." Danny giggles, and I stare at him balefully. "You're not helping."

"No, I'm drunk, and I'm trying to imagine you getting sorrowful and teary. It's just not you."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," I say darkly. I've seen the effects of too much alcohol all too often, and I swore I'd never let that happen to me. When I lash out at someone, I want to mean it.

"Yeah. On the other hand, there's a lot I do know about you, and I know that you don't do self-pity. You do what you've got to do, and you don't give up. Like now, when you're drunk and taking control anyway." He pauses and blinks a couple of times. "Did that make any sense?"

"A bit. I think." He's got a point, even if he doesn't know the half of what I've done. I've got a lot to be sorry about, but I'm not, not really. Most of it had to be done, to keep this sceptred isle smelling of roses or some such twaddle. To keep people like Danny alive and free, which is frankly a better reason.

Now I _am_ in danger of getting maudlin, so I decide a tactical withdrawal is appropriate. And realise that Danny is right again, I am taking control. "Right, I'm going to call a taxi. It's time good little Sams were in bed."

Danny considers my words carefully as I lever myself upright. "Big bad Sams have to work harder to get someone in bed with them?" he asks with a completely fake look of innocence plastered all over his face.

"Ha, you wish." I swat vaguely in his direction, since I don't really have the co-ordination to be playful at the moment, and get the landlord to phone for a local cab.

I still don't like being drunk, and whatever Danny may say it is a problem. I'm a CI5 agent, for fuck's sake. I make enemies as a matter of professional policy, and I need to be in a state to cope with it if any of them come after me, no matter where and no matter when. Especially when I'm on my own like this. Right now, I'd have to start by puking over them. That's not good. That could get me killed. Worse, it could get my colleagues killed coming after me.

See, I've got a perfectly good, rational reason for being angry with myself about this.

Danny looks at me oddly as I sit back down next to him. "What d'you mean, your dad gets drunk?"

"Can't you leave it alone?" Trust him to notice that, even when pissed.

"No," he says, then shakes his head and flushes. "I mean, it's something that bothers you, and I thought it might help to talk it out with someone who's too slaughtered to remember anything in the morning. At least, I think that's what I thought. I can't remember any more."

I have to laugh. This drunken clown isn't so different from the Danny I've come to know. He's not much more uninhibited than usual, which is a good thing or the landlord would have thrown us out hours ago, and his humour, while several notches blunter than normal, is still the same sort of observation of absurdity. The alcohol hasn't changed him a lot. It doesn't change Chris, either. I'm afraid it will change me, because I've seen what it did to my father.

"Dad used to go down to the pub and drink, that's all," I say. I must be feeling sorry for myself or I wouldn't even say that much. "He needed it after Mum died. I just had to stay up and put him to bed." Every night for months. Then I'd have to lie to the rest of the world about how he was OK, how we were coping without Mum, how we didn't need their help or their pity. How, once in a while, I'd just run into a door again, my own silly fault, or had a run in with the school bully, or anything except how Dad had still been able to stand and swing when he got home. How it was such a blessed relief to escape to university in the end. How I'd got so good at lying by then that it was easy to lie to myself, changing everything about my life so that nothing, _nothing_ reminded me of home, not even my accent.

"Christ, I didn't know," Danny says, concern evident on his face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked." He hesitates, unable to think what to say next, then just hugs me.

There must be something in my eye.

The taxi arrives in record time. Anyone would think they lie in wait around pubs near closing time. Rising to leave, I look back to Danny. "Are you OK for getting home?"

"I'm fine," he slurs, "I'll walk. Fresh air'll do me good." So saying, he stands. On the second attempt.

"Come on, we'll split the cab." I drag him outside despite his token protests, since I can see that he's much more drunk than me and severely tempted by my offer as well. If I can give in to temptation tonight, then so can he.

I stagger slightly as the cool night air hits us, feeling like I've just been mugged with cotton wool. Danny moans and slumps against me, much the worse for wear. "Fresh air isn't doing me any good, Sam," he whines, as if it was my idea.

"'E's not going to throw up, is 'e?" the cabby asks suspiciously. I ignore him with great dignity born of long practice, and pour my companion into the back seat. It takes me a bit longer to make it up the mountainous camber the road suddenly seems to have acquired and pour myself in the other side. "Where to, mate?"

"Better drop him off first," I hear my mouth say, and decide this is a good idea. Except that I don't know where Danny lives. Problem. "Danny, where d'you live?" Danny just moans. I prod him, and he moans some more but still doesn't answer. "Just a minute."

"You take your time, mate," says the cabby, whose meter is no doubt running, as I go fishing in Danny's pocket for his wallet. This takes a while, mostly because Danny goes into hysterical giggles every time I move my fingers in his pocket. I can't see what the joke is myself. Finally I get the wallet out and find his address on a library card. The driver allows that he knows where that is, and hurtles off.

It's not far, which is good since I'm having trouble hanging on at the speed the driver's going. Logically the speedometer must be broken, it claims we didn't get above 40 mph at any point.

When we arrive, it's pretty clear Danny isn't going to get in under his own steam. He's all but asleep, so once again I have to half carry him through a narrow hallway and up some enormously creaky stairs. When we get to the door with the right number on it, I double check, peering closely since I'm having trouble focusing in the dim light here. "Keys, Danny?" There's no response, and I turn to find him drooling on my shoulder, eyes closed. Bugger it, I could search through his pockets again, and it might be fun seeing what I found, but I'm getting tired of this. I ought to be able to pick this lock with my eyes shut. Heck, Chris ought to be able to pick this one. Without the electronic lockpick.

His place is tiny, no wonder he never invites me over. There's room for the bed, wardrobe and table, and that's about it. For some reason I'm not surprised that he keeps it tidy, but then if his housekeeping was as lax as Chris' he wouldn't be able to move in a day or two.

For lack of anything better to do, I sit Danny down on his bed. He immediately keels over sideways and wriggles a little to get his head comfortable on the pillow, all without opening his eyes. Good idea. Since there are no further signs of motion from him, I pull off his shoes and lift his legs up onto the bed too. He wriggles a bit more, and makes a small contented noise. I ought to tuck him in properly, but the taxi's still waiting.

I pause at the door. He looks even younger than usual sprawled on his side like that. "G'night Danny," I whisper. A soft snore is the only response I get.

Yes, it's good to know that there are ordinary people like him around.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm tired. I'll be buggered if I'm going to show it to our esteemed colleagues, but I'm short on sleep and annoyed with the world. Thank God Danny disappeared early last night by his standards, or I wouldn't have been able to hide the yawns.

Chris and I have been out and about since well before six this morning, enjoying the company of the local constabulary. It seems that someone screwed up surveillance in our latest attempt to crimp the style of London's drug dealers, and our best lead to date got murdered last night. That brought the boys in blue in, and since Malone is too busy screaming at Burns and Jardine for not seeing a damn thing of the murderer that leaves us to liaise with the police.

Chris has behaved remarkably well, given how early it is and how much our contact officer is everything he hates in a policeman. Detective Sergeant Seaton is loud, opinionated and not nearly as smart as he'd like to think he is. I'm finding him grating, so it's a minor miracle that Chris has only seen fit to subject the man to light sarcasm. I don't think Seaton noticed.

On the plus side, Seaton's men seem to be a competent bunch. They are already hauling in a suspect, to Seaton's great delight. On the minus side, the evidence is pretty flimsy thus far, and in any case Chris and I would have preferred to tail this Thurlow character for a bit rather than warn the entire world that we're on to him.

It's probably a wild goose chase anyway. The office rumour mill, who seem to be as susceptible to my charms as any other secretaries, tell me that Seaton has been trying to pin something major on Thurlow for a while now. He hasn't succeeded, they whisper, mostly because as far as anyone can tell Thurlow hasn't done anything. Charming.

In the interests of continued inter-agency co-operation, I leave Chris to Seaton's tender mercies and help myself to what the police laughingly call coffee. It's a bitter sludge, and I can quite understand why Chris took one look at it and swore that he wasn't that desperate, but my need is great. I'm not the caffeine addict that my partner is, I'm doing this to try to wake up properly. The more outstandingly horrible the coffee the better, from that point of view.

Unfortunately there's quite a gaggle of people with the same idea as me crowded around the coffee pot. It looks like the day shift have arrived, and need to fortify themselves before heading out onto the streets. Some of them seem to think that I'm some sort of antiques expert, and disabusing them of this notion involves explaining what I am doing here. That in turn leads to the usual drop in temperature when CI5 is mentioned, and causes several people to pre-emptively defend Seaton just in case I'd got the wrong idea about him. He's a good copper, they insist, just a bit fixed in his opinions on some matters. He and Dad would get on like a house on fire.

What with all this and having to wait for the coffee pot to refill, I'm late for the interview. In fact, I don't find out that Thurlow is in the station at all until after they've started in on him. This is not something calculated to endear me to DS Seaton, who I'm beginning to actively loathe. I pause outside the interview room to compose myself, since I don't want to show Seaton how annoyed I am, then walk in without knocking.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, since no one had seen fit to show me Thurlow's police file. What I wasn't expecting was Danny. Judging from the way he flinched when he saw me it's mutual. I school my face quickly and move across to Chris, thinking furiously. If I remember the timing correctly, Danny can't have been our killer. I can't imagine him as a killer anyway, he's not the type. All I've got to do now is get him out of here without sounding like we'd been having sex.

Danny takes it upon himself to fill me in, with added sarcasm for the benefit of the police. "For those who haven't been following this exciting drama, I've been accused of murder and have stated that I was with a _friend_ at eleven o'clock, and that furthermore they aren't getting any more details until said friend agrees to it."

The way he glares at Seaton when he says 'friend' tells me that he's seen the same problem I have and has already had trouble with it. Seaton's unrepentant stare isn't exactly encouraging. More importantly, Danny's words also leave me firmly in the driving seat. If he says that he won't say any more, then he won't. He can be as stubborn as Chris when it suits his purpose.

Seaton evidently doesn't know Danny nearly so well, or doesn't care. "We're supposed to believe that you and your friend sat up half the night talking about poetry or whatever—"

Danny interrupts him, almost relaxed now that he has passed responsibility over to me. I can see Chris puzzling over that reaction as Danny speaks. "Actually," he says, "it was more like the relative merits of a good Shiraz and Stella Artois, West Ham's chances of finishing in the top five, and the latest Andy McNabb. Oh, and how to disarm a banana-wielding maniac."

And the rest, I think, before a little of my partner's deviltry rubs off on me. Watch out Seaton, here comes some payback for annoying me.

The policeman in question has another go at finishing his sentence. "Whatever, and—"

"Knife-wielding maniac," I say firmly, as if precision in such matters was the most important thing in the world.

"Whatever." Seaton seems a touch annoyed with me for interrupting, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

Danny follows his cue magnificently. "In my admittedly limited experience," he says in a passable imitation of me, "I had not previously believed knives to be yellow and squishy."

I pause a moment to let Seaton think he's going to get a word in edgeways this time, then let him have it. "Well, I was hardly going to demonstrate with the real thing, was I?"

Seaton goes a very gratifying shade of purple as Danny grins openly. My amusement is short lived, however, as Chris practically explodes at me. "You know this guy, Sam? And you didn't say?"

I'm caught by surprise. I expected Chris to approve of winding up the local constabulary. I put his anger — and make no mistake, it's real anger — down to the early hour and insufficient caffeine, but I really don't know what to make of it. OK, so we have wasted some time investigating a dead end, but I genuinely didn't recognise Danny's surname.

"Sorry, Chris," I say, trying to soothe his ruffled feathers, "the name just didn't register."

Danny does not help. "I'd claim to be hurt," he gloats, "but actually I wouldn't have missed this wonderful wind-up of some of my favourite people for the world. Do you need a drink, Sergeant?"

While the other policemen present see to Seaton, I try to calm Chris down. Unsuccessfully. He flinches when I touch his shoulder, and gives me a venomous glare before focusing back on Danny. Now I'm afraid. I hoped that Chris was just out of sorts, but he flinched when I touched him. Flinched. I don't like where that thought's taking me.

"Just for the record, when exactly did you leave Mr Curtis' house last night?" Chris' words may be formal, but his tone leaves no doubt as to exactly how angry he is.

"Some time between eleven and midnight," Danny replies innocently enough, not that this mollifies Chris at all. "Sorry, I didn't really notice the time. I had a few things on my mind."

"I thought you were a bit distracted," I say, and Chris glowers at me again. Damn, I've just rubbed his nose in it, haven't I? I had Danny round at my place, and he thinks I _had_ Danny round at my place, which means....

Control, Curtis, control. "It was 11:20, give or take a few minutes, and before you ask the time of death was shortly before eleven." I'm pleased with myself. There's no trace in my voice or on my face of the turmoil that my partner mustn't see. I'm just talking with friends, that's all. "So, unless you've got a time machine hidden away somewhere...."

"I should be so lucky. Can I go now?" Danny does suddenly look very tired, and there really isn't any more to be done now I've provided his alibi, so I look at Chris questioningly.

He ignores me resolutely. "I have a few more questions," he says, and I try to warn Danny with my eyes. Protesting now will only be painful for all of us. "On the other hand, we don't need to waste any more of the valuable time of these fine officers of the law."

I'm glad to get out of the interview room. What with Chris in as foul a temper as I've seen him in for a long while, Danny provoking the remaining police on general principles, and me trying to make myself believe that my partner doesn't hate me, we must make a right threesome. Chris doesn't even bother with token politeness as we leave the station, much to Danny's amusement. Normally I'd stay behind and soothe their egos for a while, but I'm not up to that right now. I'm not up to anything much, least of all handling Chris when he's ready to bite my head off.

At least Chris waits until we are out of sight of the station before he turns on me. "'The name just didn't register' my ass! What's going on here?"

I don't know what to say to him. "I didn't recognise Danny's surname, that's all," I offer feebly. Being true doesn't make it sound any less lame.

Danny tries to defend me, not knowing Chris well enough to understand what a bad move this is. "I'm not sure I ever got round to telling you," he says, then backs off rapidly when he gets a good look at Chris' expression. "We were introduced by christian name," he adds cautiously, "and, well, how often do you use a friend's surname?"

There's that slight emphasis on 'friend' again, just like he said it to Seaton. I see Chris take it in, but his scowl isn't promising. At any rate, he returns his attention to me. "Sam, just how long have you know this... this..."

"Rent boy?" Danny suggests, all innocent.

For one heart-stopping moment I think Chris is going to hit him. If I was in any doubt as to my partner's feelings about homosexuality, the look of pure fury in his eyes would put me straight.

I can't tell Chris the truth, that I called Danny up to find out how to make love to my partner. It looks like getting into bed with me is somewhere lower on Chris' list of priorities than swimming in pig shit. Still, I suppose it's better to find that out now when he doesn't know how I feel, rather than after a declaration of undying love.

In fact I can't tell Chris I called Danny up at all. He'll just take it as confirmation that I've been having sex with a male prostitute, and I don't think I can cope with that. I'm having a hard enough time dealing with the hatred pouring off him already. That leaves me lying outright to the man I love.

Feeling like a louse, I try to make it sound like no big deal. "A couple of months," I say, "just after the Hardacre case. We happened to be propping up the same bit of bar, and were still chatting when the landlord threw us out."

Chris continues to glare at Danny, who seems to have finally realised that he's still in trouble. "Look," Danny says, "how about we continue this conversation in the cafe over there. I'm much more civilised after coffee, and I haven't had any breakfast yet either. Seaton's boys hauled me out of bed without so much as a by-your-leave."

The mention of coffee seems to remind Chris of his own lack of sleep, and he grudgingly allows that it might be a good idea. There's still a hurt disappointment in his eyes, though, which cuts me to the core.

Since London is a fundamentally civilised place, it's no great surprise that the cafe Danny indicated is open at 9 am. Chris and Danny still seem determined to score points off each other, so it's left to me to ensure that we are all fed and watered. The coffee doesn't seem to make much difference to them, except maybe to make their sarcasm more subtle. I just concentrate on not looking as miserable as I feel. My partner might not loathe me any more, but he would if he knew the truth.

Eventually I run out of patience. It hurts to see two friends so dead set on hating each other. I try to distract them with work. "So, did you see anything in Northampton Street last night?" I ask Danny.

"I'm afraid not," he says glumly. "Mind you, it was easily half an hour afterwards, and I wasn't at my most observant. The way I was then, I wouldn't guarantee to have noticed a marching band."

I knew he had something on his mind, and it's clearly pretty major, but now isn't the time for me to offer to help him with whatever it is. I promise myself that I will; he's given me so much, it's not his fault that it's all turned out to be futile.

"Well, that was a lot of help." Chris can't resist a snipe, and I find myself getting annoyed with his attitude. He can be as homophobic as he likes, but for God's sake Danny is trying!

Danny ignores him. "I do know some of the girls who work the area, I could ask around. Maybe they saw something." He doesn't sound very hopeful, though. "Who was this Crane guy anyway?"

"A link in a chain," Chris says, not giving anything away. I try not to sigh. I trust Danny enough to tell him, and it can't harm our investigation anyway.

"He's a drug distributor we had under surveillance, trying to track back to his boss. It looks like someone slipped up and got noticed, and Crane was killed to stop us getting anything out of him."

"Woo. What lovely people you guys get to meet." Danny doesn't sound overly surprised though, reminding me again that despite his relative youth he does live on the seamier side of life. He knows well enough what these people are capable of. "I'll see if I can dig up anything useful for you."

Chris pounces like a cat on a mouse. "You do drugs?" The thought is pretty alarming, despite all I know of Danny's almost fanatical attitude about his body.

"Christ, no." Danny sounds faintly disgusted that we could think such a thing. "But I know guys who do, who know guys who deal, some of whom are fucked up enough to leak like a sieve if they don't realise you're pumping them for info. It'll take a while, and it may not turn up anything you don't already know, but at least there's a chance I can help."

This is pretty much the sort of thing we'd be doing anyway. I'm just about to caution Danny to be careful, something I'm sure he's well aware of, when my phone rings. "3-7."

"Sam," Backup's voice is barely audible over the hiss of static, "can you talk?"

"Yes," I say, as the static drowns everything out, "sorry Backup, the reception's lousy here, I'll try moving somewhere else." Rationalising that the large number of mirrors and chrome fittings decorating this place are not good for the cellphone's signal, I move towards the front of the cafe. "How's that?"

"Much better," she says, with barely a trace of interference invading our conversation. "How is the police lead panning out?"

"No good," I say tersely, "just an innocent bystander." I can imagine her rolling her eyes in that way we all do when another agency fucks up.

"Malone wants you and Chris to leave them to it. We've got a possible lead on Crane's sources, and Malone wants you back here for a briefing. If there's anything to it, this one could be a little sensitive."

"As in political?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh joy." All we need is for some friend of the Minister's to be involved to make the operation a total disaster. "So what are the odds that this will all explode in our faces, then?"

"I don't know," Backup admits. "The lead is no sure thing by any means, which makes the whole investigation even trickier."

I sigh. "We'll be back as quick as we can," I tell her, and sign off. It's time to collect Chris and get out of here.

Chris and Danny seem to have come to some sort of cease-fire when I get back to the table, though they're still wary of each other. I forget myself so far as to tap Chris on the shoulder to get his attention, and wonder of wonders he doesn't flinch.

"We're needed back at HQ. I'll fill you in on the way." The sooner I can separate these two, the better.

Chris gets up to follow me then pauses, looking back at Danny. "Do you need a lift?" he asks. They have made progress, I'm amazed. I wonder what Danny said to him, manipulative little sod that he sometime is. Probably something about not catching it from coffee mugs.

God, that was catty.

Come on Curtis, it's time to face facts. Your partner is a homophobe, and the fact that he's making an effort to treat someone he knows to be gay as a person doesn't mean that he's going to leap into bed with you.

On second thoughts, let's not face facts just yet. I'll do that this evening when I can get stinking drunk and no one can see me cry. For now, I'll just be happy that I've got a partner, even if I can't touch him.

Danny declines the offer, but smiles as he does so. He's fine. Even Chris manages to smile back, leaving me feeling the odd one out. At least Backup's news gives me an excuse to be serious.

I fill Chris in as we walk to the car, which as usual starts him ranting all over again. Chris seems to regard politics meddling with CI5 business as a personal affront. To me, it's just bloody dangerous. The moment politicians get anywhere near our chain of command, we get loaded down with so many restrictions and directives that we might as well just wander around wearing big neon signs saying "Shoot me."

I drive, taking out my frustrations on the London traffic. It feels good. Chris, who is still ranting away, either doesn't notice or forbears to comment. As he winds down, I try to work out how to broach the subject of Danny and our farcical scene in the police station without sounding like I'm making an abject apology.

Chris, predictably, beats me to it. After one final opinion on the parentage of all politicians everywhere, he sighs mightily and collapses back into his seat.

"Sorry I blew up at you back there," he says. "You just caught me by surprise, and, well, I guess I didn't handle it too good."

"No problem, mate," I say, lying through my teeth. "No harm done. I'm just sorry I let the whole mess get as far as it did. I really ought to have recognised Danny's name."

There is an awkward silence, then Chris asks quietly, "Sam, you and he are just friends, aren't you?"

I glance at Chris for as long as I dare while driving. He looks tired, defeated almost. Have I disappointed him that much?

"Danny and I are not now, and never have been lovers. Will that do you?" The future I'm not guaranteeing, not now that I know Chris' opinion on the subject.

For the briefest of moments he looks so relieved to find I'm not gay that I want to hit him. If I hadn't been looking for it I might not have noticed given how quickly he schools his face. "Yeah. Not that it's any of my business, but I was worried."

"Does that sort of thing worry you a lot?" Ouch. Sheathe those claws, Curtis!

Chris chooses not to hear my bitterness, I think. "Blackmail? Hell yes, of course it worries me."

"Good. Now you've satisfied yourself that it won't happen, and since as you pointed out it's none of your business anyway, can we change the subject? I'm getting a little tired of my private life being a matter of public debate."

We lapse into silence for the rest of the journey. Chris really does seem tired, though he's more relaxed now that we've had it out. I'm not interested in making small-talk right now either. I'm too busy thinking of other things to speak.

I've got a broken heart to stick back together somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"...some sort of antiques expert..."_ Colin Wells (aka Sam Curtis) played Sgt Marty Fox, an expert on antiques forgery, as a one-shot character on _The Bill_ a year or two before the New Pros aired. Of such small amusements is my life made.


	4. Chapter 4

We have a solid lead, at last. Danny came up with a connection from Crane to a man named Steven Webber at a time when we were getting nowhere. In fact the only leads we were getting seemed to be designed to lead us into embarrassment and confusion by pointing us at important people who inevitably turned out to be nothing to do with the case.

Malone was not happy that CI5 spent an entire day chasing down red herrings. He was even less happy to have our most promising lead come from an outsider, and quizzed me hard about Danny's trustworthiness. I answered, honestly enough, that I'd never used Danny as a formal information source before so I couldn't gauge his reliability. Informally, speaking as a friend, I hadn't had any cause to doubt him though. I didn't believe that he'd deliberately mislead us.

We tore into Webber's background with an enthusiasm born of severe annoyance. Whoever was behind this (and we all agreed with Danny that it couldn't be Webber himself) had covered his tracks well and left behind enough misinformation to get a less cautious outfit than CI5 into serious trouble. Webber wasn't nearly as well protected. It didn't take us long to determine his supply shipment routines, and as Danny said it seemed like the man was a small-time supplier of everything.

What we couldn't find out was exactly where Webber was getting his supplies from. We had dates and times, but no names or locations, and no way we could see of backtracking. It looked like we were going to have to go back to straightforward surveillance work, except that this time Malone was determined that no one was going to screw up.

Then Richards came up trumps. He has this arrangement with BT; he doesn't tell them he has full access to their calls database, and they don't worry. Anyway, he noticed that one of the people Webber regularly called also had an arrangement with BT, in that his billing information was junk. Our mystery man had also contacted Webber on the day that Crane was murdered, all of which made it look very likely that he or she was connected with things.

But there was more than that, Richards smugly informed us. One of Steven Webber's multitudinous phone lines was rarely used, but whenever he did get a call on it he then phoned his mystery sponsor. All we had to do was to find out what the calls were about, and we had some sort of line to our supplier.

So back to the grindstone we went, and this was where the trouble really started. A little digging told us that this phone line was associated with a standing offer on the streets. Whether you were a man or a woman, if you gave them sex, they would give you money. A lot of money, which suggested that the sex wasn't going to be pleasant.

I should have checked it through with Danny. I'd have had some ammunition then, but instead I was caught flat-footed by Malone. He declared, not unreasonably, that the fastest way through to our drug importer was for someone to phone the sex line. So far so good. When he announced that the someone in question would be Chris, I lost it.

I told Malone in no uncertain terms that I didn't think Chris was the right agent for the job, and indeed that asking anyone to play a sex toy for the evening was so far above and beyond the call of duty that it wasn't funny. I was about to go on to a detailed analysis of Malone's parentage followed by an offer to do it myself if Malone really insisted on one of us going through with this mad plan, when Chris trod heavily on my foot. If I could be uncharacteristically short-tempered, he could be uncharacteristically patient it seemed.

Having stopped me from making more of a fool of myself, Chris tried to take on more of my job in briefings by deflecting Malone's anger. It didn't work, of course, there was no way that Malone could let my insubordination slide. He let me off relatively easily, though. He knows about Morgan and... all that, it had been in my MI6 confidential records, and I think he thought that was what had set me off.

Malone didn't know about Chris' reaction to Danny, to everything that Danny stood for, and I couldn't tell him, not with Chris present. He didn't know that he was asking Chris to pretend to be something he detested.

Chris, consummate professional that he is, wasn't about to let his personal prejudices interfere with the job. He just stood there impassively as Malone explained to me that, as a young American in London, Chris would seem more vulnerable and therefore more attractive to our target. Furthermore the presence of Backup and her merry men would preclude any actual funny business, so if I could confine myself to constructive statements he would be most appreciative.

That was it, really. I never had a chance to stop Chris from being used as bait, so I concentrated on providing him with the best protection possible. While Chris was phoning the sex line (and according to Backup sounding so much like he was putting a brave face on desperation that she had to stop herself from hugging him — little did she know!), I was checking an appropriate tracer out from stores. Once we knew where he was going, I was the one who pulled the building plans and worked out how to cover the place. I was, in short, single-mindedly focused on keeping my partner safe.

I drew the line at helping him choose his outfit for the evening. There are things a man shouldn't know about his partner's wardrobe, not if he doesn't want to be caught drooling. I knew I didn't need to worry anyway, Chris has an innate sense of style that has never let him down yet. The black polo neck and figure-hugging jeans that he selected were just perfect, just worn enough to make it look like he needed the money while looking amazing on him.

Then there was nothing to do except fuss and fidget. Normally I'm the cool one, waiting patiently for the right moment while Chris wriggles, twitches and generally makes a damn nuisance of himself. However today seemed to be a day for us to switch roles, and I found myself checking and rechecking equipment and procedures while Chris just sat there in apparent serenity.

Even now, sitting in the car a couple of hundred yards from the Stairway Club, I find myself verifying once again that the tracer in Chris' left trainer is working. Chris looks on with amused tolerance at my neurotic behaviour.

"Happy now, mother," he asks, "or would you like to check my underwear too?"

"As long as it's clean and not silk, I don't care," I snap back at him. Then a horrible suspicion hits me. "You are wearing underwear, aren't you?"

Chris looks hard put not to laugh out loud. "All Monique's rumour-mongering to the contrary, I do not find the idea of going commando at all attractive. It's too damn cold in this country for one thing!"

Another time, I'd laugh with him. Another time I wouldn't be so damn glad that there was one more layer of clothing between him and the people he's going to see.

"Backup and Harley are already inside, and there's plenty more of us out here." Myself included, to my considerably annoyance. "If you hit any kind of trouble, Chris, do anything you can to attract attention and we'll be right in there."

"I know, buddy. Thanks for caring."

If only you knew, I think. Then Chris gets out of the car, and with a jaunty wave joins the throngs going into the club. "See you in hell," I murmur, and start counting the seconds.

About quarter of an hour later, I'm all but a nervous wreck. All I can think of is why hasn't Chris signalled us yet, what's gone wrong? He could still be working his way through to the target, it's true, but my mind keeps throwing up all the worst possibilities. Then I spot the car, and my instincts start screaming at me.

The Stairway Club has an underground car park, of all luxuries. It's nominally for the staff, but I wouldn't mind betting that a favoured few customers get passes too, if they are important or scary enough. What worries me right now is that a decent-looking car — more expensive than any bar staff ought to be able to keep — is about to pull out.

"3-7. There's a car leaving the staff parking area."

"What of it?" Backup asks.

"At this time of night? It isn't eight yet, there's no way any of the staff will be going home for hours."

"Any signs of movement?" she asks again, meaning Chris this time.

"Not for the last five minutes," Richards reports.

All evidence to the contrary, I'm now convinced Chris is in that car. Chris doesn't stay still that long, therefore the tracer isn't on him. "I'm going to tail them," I say, suiting actions to words.

"Do that," Backup agrees. "The rest of us will go in. Something's not right here. 5-3 out."

As the car goes innocently on its way and I go less innocently after it, I get another bright idea and phone the number plate in to control for checking. A few minutes later, Spencer comes back with the goods. The car belongs to a largely fictitious company run by our old friend, Steven Webber. Well, well, what a coincidence. He could be just leaving after getting his cut of the deal, but I don't think so.

I radio the news on to Backup, who sounds worried. "How are you doing?" I ask her.

"We've found Chris' clothes, but no sign of him. There's still a lot of rooms back here, though." She'll keep searching, just in case I'm wrong, but I'm sure I'm on the right trail.

"Don't forget to bring the clothes. You know how he whinges about the cold climate here." That's right, Curtis, make jokes about it. Chris will be OK, he has to be.

It's not long before Webber's car turns off the road. "They're entering an industrial estate off Queen Edith Road," I tell Backup, and pull over twenty yards further on. My car would be far too obvious in there at this time of night. "I'm going in on foot."

"Roger that, 3-7. We're finished up here and will join you as soon as we get there."

Inside the estate it's fairly easy to find out where the car has gone. It has joined several others outside some offices, and they are pretty much the only vehicles present. I slip up to them, hugging the shadows, and scope the place out. Hiding at the side of the building, I'm about to put my gun away and report in when I realise I'm not alone.

My assailant rushes me, trying to get my gun away from me. It doesn't help that I don't want to alert the people inside just yet, and the sound of shooting would do just that. At least this idiot isn't yelling his head off, I think as I rabbit punch him left-handed. Unfortunately for me, he manages to smack my gun hand hard against the brick wall first, and my weapon goes skittering away into the darkness.

With the wind knocked out of him, my opponent goes down quickly. CI5's unarmed combat techniques may be a bit on the rough and ready side if Chris is to be believed, but they are effective. Acutely aware of the time, I hurriedly truss the man and shove him behind some discarded boxes. Then I waste a minute fruitlessly searching for my gun, and another hiding in the shadows as two men who look nothing like Steven Webber get into his company car and drive off. Presumably the man doesn't do his own dirty work, I tell Backup.

"Presumably he doesn't want to be identified," she replies. "Our ETA is about ten minutes."

"Great. I'll be inside," I say, and start applying my pocket knife to the window I've been eyeing up. It opens easily, and no alarms start ringing. Not that I was expecting any, but it's always a relief.

"Can't you wait for us, damn it?"

"My partner has bitten off more than he can chew — again — and you expect me to stand idle? 3-7 out." Backup can fume all she likes, I'm not leaving Chris to have all his nightmares come true at once.

I slip inside the building and pull the window to. I leave it slightly ajar, just in case Chris and I need to make a fast exit, then eye up the darkened office I have entered.

From the headed notepaper lurking about the place, it seems that F.H. Whitsun Ltd are into management training and consultancy services. The memos and notes themselves don't tell me anything useful and the rest of the office is equally uninformative, but then again I could hardly expect a map of the building to fall into my lap. I could go searching in the filing cabinets, but that would make more noise than I want to right now. It's not my primary mission anyway.

There are two doors to the office, with light spilling from under both. I can hear voices outside the near door, the one nearest the front of the building. While I can't make out the words, they sound bored and conversational. Security guards, most likely. If I still had my gun I could surprise them, reduce the opposition running round in here. On the other hand, Chris is more likely to be further into the building, hidden away in some seminar room, with someone trying to 'manage' him....

Control, Curtis!

I am still a professional. By the time I have crossed to the other door, my heart rate and breathing are back to normal and my face betrays nothing. I will think of finding Chris, not of what might be being done to him.

For all the light, there is no noise outside this door. I open it and slip through noiselessly, finding myself in a corridor. Slowly and cautiously I make my way through the building, eyes and ears alert for anything that might give me a clue to Chris' location.

My luck doesn't hold for too long, but then I never expected it to. We make our own luck in this job, and I've been careful to keep track of which office doors are open and which are locked. When I hear the guards moving, it is the work of moments to slip into safety.

The guards amble round slowly, talking all the while. Since it seems like I will have an extended stay in my sanctuary, I take the time to check it over. As luck would have it, the tiny office seems to belong to the MD. It has the usual office detritus — a variety of dried up pens sitting in a mug, framed photo of disgustingly cute child, framed MBA certificates on the walls — together with a handwritten note on top of the In-tray. 'No working late tonight.' Confirmation that Whitsun's is a willing partner in this whole sick enterprise.

Knowing that, and since I can still hear the guards on their painfully slow patrol, I spend some time searching through the neatly stacked papers. With luck, I'll find some clues as to exactly who is pulling the strings here. A name, perhaps, to go with the face that Chris undoubtedly knows all too well by now....

Control, Curtis!

I am just leafing through the company registration papers, trying to make enough sense of the legalese to work out who owns what and ignoring the little voice screaming in the back of my head to get a move on damn it, when I hear something. It's muffled by all the thin partition walls, but I recognise the choked cry anyway. I've heard it exactly once before, in South Africa when I tightened the splint on Chris' leg without warning him first.

I am still a professional. I am controlled. I do not rush out of the office to get to my partner's side, heedless of the dangers. I do move silently and efficiently, slipping out of the office to find the source of that noise. That is my mission objective, after all, to recover Chris intact.

Now my luck does run out completely. I step out of the office into full view of the guards who are no longer talking, and they notice me. Ducking back inside, I assess my options quickly. The office window is too small to leap through, and it will take too long for me to climb over the desk to open it. My best bet is to let myself get captured, and buy some time for Backup.

Quickly, I throw my CI5 ID under the desk. My radio headset follows it — I stand a better chance of bluffing my way through this if I can try to pass myself off as an opportunistic thief. Only then do I start clambering across the desk, knocking the paperwork aside as the security goons rush in and grab me. I put up a bit of a struggle, but not so much as to blow my improvised cover.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the guards demands.

"I wasn't doing anything! I was just..." I stop struggling, as if realising how feeble I sound. "I was just looking round," I finish sullenly.

A little more shaking and I have them convinced. "Mr Declan will want to know," the first guard says.

"He won't like being interrupted." So Declan's here then. I commit the name to memory, since he's likely to be involved in the drugs business as well.

"Works for me." The guard smirks nastily at me, and I try to look appropriately cowed. I've landed myself in deep trouble, or at least I would have if Backup wasn't just minutes away.

As they drag me away in the direction that the cry came from, I start whining at them. I didn't do anything, I didn't mean any harm, all the stuff that I would come out with if I really was inept enough to try robbing this place while it was occupied.

In short order they knock on a door and pull me through into a conference room. I try to take in the surroundings, assess who constitutes a threat in here, but my eyes are drawn irresistibly to Chris. He's strapped naked into some sort of frame and I can't see his face, but the angry welts all over his back are almost too much for me. He's been whipped. Repeatedly.

My mouth opens before my brain can stop it. "Oh God, Chris!" Bloody brilliant, Curtis. Give the game away with your first words, why don't you? No one with any sense is going to have missed that slip.

The guards do. "We found him inside, Mr Declan," they say.

A hand grasps my chin and wrenches my head around. Cruel blue eyes in a smirking hatchet face are burned into my memory — this is the bastard who has hurt Chris! Then Declan speaks. "So you know our _guest_ this evening, then?" The man has a way of speaking that chills the blood, making it sound as if the damage he has inflicted is a favour to Chris.

"I... I..." I stammer, playing for time as I try to come up with my second cover in as many minutes. Then I drop my eyes. "Yeah," I murmur. "I know him."

Declan lets go of me and moves away, gesturing to the guards to release me. For a moment I contemplate charging him, trying to take him hostage and spare Chris any more humiliation and pain, but there are too many heavies in here. I could surprise the guards behind me, but there are too many goons around Declan, I'd never reach him.

I start talking, quietly and hesitantly at first. "I'm a friend. He told me he was... he needed the money. I was worried, so I followed him." I look up, meaning to meet Declan's eyes but finding my gaze irresistibly drawn to Chris. "I'm just a friend. I only wanted to make sure he was OK."

It's a flimsy excuse for a cover, but it doesn't need to last more than a couple of minutes. Judging by the lazy smile on Declan's face, it'll do.

"Ah, such friendship," he says in that light, mocking voice of his. "I think devotion like that should be rewarded, don't you Mansell?"

The man holding the whip grunts something that could be taken as assent. I promise myself that when the time for action does come, Mansell will get what's coming to him. If Declan's eyes hold mockery, Mansell's show nothing short of malice. He enjoyed hurting Chris, and I'm going to enjoy hurting him.

"Yes," Declan continues, "under the circumstances I think we should give you the honour of the first fuck."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, then my blood runs cold. He wants me to... to rape Chris. "You're... you're kidding."

"No. Strip." The laziness is gone from his voice now, replaced by the steely tones of a man used to getting his own way.

I don't care. It doesn't matter how much I want to, I'm not going to touch Chris. "Fuck off and die."

Declan sighs theatrically. "Such ingratitude. If you really wish, you can take your delightful little friend's place... after he's died of strangulation." He chuckles a little at my confusion, then presses a button on a remote control handset I hadn't noticed before. With a whining noise, the frame that Chris is strapped to starts to move, lifting his feet off the floor and tipping him over so that his weight rests on his wrists and neck. It won't be long before his arms give out and he starts to choke. "Such a slow death, I'm sure we can play it out for hours while you watch."

I want to kill Declan. Now. But I can't, I won't make it to him with his men around, and Chris will still die. My shoulders slump and I see Declan's grin widen at this sign of my defeat.

I bend down to remove my shoes and socks first, mind whirling. Whatever happens, I mustn't touch Chris. _I love him._ I won't rape him, it would destroy him. _I want to make love to him._ I am not James fucking Morgan. _I want to be in him._ I have to spin this out until Backup and the others get here. _I want to be in him now._ Please, God, now would be a good time.

God is listening, it seems. Just as I am about to straighten up, someone — Backup? — crashes through the ceiling and takes out the guards behind me. I don't waste time looking, I just yell at whoever it is to get Chris free and leap amongst Declan's strongarm boys intent on causing as much chaos as possible. I have the pleasure of bloodying Mansell's nose before it dawns on me that the rest of CI5 haven't yet charged in through the door. What's holding them up?

One of the men slips past me, and I hear Chris yell something. I risk a glance to see how he and our rescuer are doing, and nearly let my guard down in surprise. It's not Backup or Harley there quietly and efficiently breaking the attacker's arm, it's Danny. If it wasn't for the way he starts turning green, anyone would think he'd spent weeks training to do that. In reality, I know I only taught him that manoeuvre two nights ago.

Turning back to the remaining men, I grin nastily. I'm more determined than ever to keep them occupied. There are too many of them for me to have a hope of taking them down, but if I can keep them dodging around and tripping over each other, that will give Danny a decent chance to free Chris. If our positions were reversed, Chris would be pulling some outlandish moves and slowly taking the opposition down. I have my work cut out just surviving.

It works. I collect enough bruises to guarantee myself an all expenses paid trip to CI5's resident doctor, but it's not long before Chris evens up the numbers and starts making inroads on the enemy. I drop back to protect Danny; he's so far out of his depth in this fight that it's a miracle he hasn't already been knocked senseless. He's looking tired and hurt as it is, and the pipe that he's wielding won't keep him safe for very long without help.

Now that Chris is taking on his fair share of the bad guys, I don't have to think too hard about how to tackle the remainder and can stay alert for other trouble. The gunshot still surprises me, though in my defence I am rather busy introducing Mansell's head to the wall at the time. I drop the unconscious whip man and scan for the shooter, only to have Danny scream and tackle me. Another bullet showers us with plaster from the wall as we fall. I have time to see Declan start to aim again as Chris charges up on his flank before I realise that Danny isn't moving and there's something wet between me and him.

Before the remaining goons can take advantage of our prone position and risk getting themselves shot, the cavalry arrives with guns drawn. "Freeze!" Backup barks, and at the fury in her voice everyone who knows what's good for them puts their hands in the air. Declan doesn't know what's good for him and starts to swing his gun around. Chris disarms him and knocks him to the ground with brutal efficiency before joining me as I carefully roll Danny to the ground.

Danny is bleeding profusely from a bullet-hole in his stomach. It doesn't look good, and Chris' hiss of displeasure as he gets a proper look at the wound doesn't encourage me. The only positive thing is that he's unconscious, so he can't feel the pain for now. "Ambulance," I snap, looking to Backup.

"On it's way." She fumbles a first aid kit out of a pouch and hands it to me. "Idiot," she mutters to Danny, "I told you to stay put." I know Backup, she's more angry with herself than with him, but I still have to stop myself snapping at her. I owe Danny for saving me from myself, because I know full well I couldn't have saved Chris from me.


	5. Chapter 5

I sit at home, reading.

Actually, I sit at home staring at a book of Rilke's poetry without seeing a word of it. Instead, despite my best intentions, I find myself thinking of Chris, of what I nearly did to him, and of just how much I wanted to do it. I had my partner, the man who trusts me to watch his back, tied down naked in front of me, and if we hadn't been interrupted I would have fucked him until he screamed.

I really, truly disgust myself right now.

I should resign, quit CI5 and hide myself in the deepest, darkest hole I can find. That way I won't be able to do Chris any more harm. If I stay close to him, I know exactly what sort of a monster I'll become. I can even put a name to it.

James Morgan, I hate you forever.

Of course, the problem with resigning is that Malone would want to know why. What Malone wants to know, Malone eventually finds out, and I don't think I could cope with the shame of that either. He knows that Morgan... say it Curtis... Morgan raped me, but he doesn't know what happened two nights ago. My report omitted to mention exactly what Declan intended me to do; at the time I thought I was allowing Chris to cling to a few shreds of dignity, but I've since realised that it was just rank cowardice on my part. I don't want Malone to know, because either he'll give me undeserved sympathy or he'll realise what I'm becoming. Either he wouldn't accept my resignation or he'd kick me out in such disgrace as CI5 has never known before.

So I have to stay, and somehow or other keep my hands off my infinitely desirable partner. At times like this my father's solution, drinking myself into oblivion, almost looks attractive.

Chris needs to know that he's safe with me, that I'll watch his back and never let anything like Declan happen to him again. I can't lie that well, not to Chris.

The only other person I could conceivably talk to is currently being no help at all. Danny may be compos mentis and recovering nicely in hospital, but his solution is for me to talk to Chris. He thinks that I empathise with Chris, that my own experience will help Chris get over his. He doesn't know the rest of it. He doesn't know that Morgan was my partner, damn it. He doesn't know that I didn't have the strength of will to resist when Chris was presented to me. He doesn't know that if he hadn't interrupted us, Backup would have found me buried to the hilt in my partner and enjoying every minute of it.

Danny thinks I wouldn't hurt Chris. He doesn't know that I wanted to so badly.

If I could disgust myself any more than I already do, I would.

So I'm left with sticking it out and trying to fend off the inevitable. I'm doing what I always do when I run out of options, freezing him out. If I can keep my relationship with Chris on a purely professional level, the half-baked idea runs, then maybe I can keep the monster inside me in check. Maybe it won't hurt so much this way. I can't afford to be his friend any more, I don't trust myself to leave it at that.

That's why I'm sitting here alone, reading the most tedious poetry I can think of in the original German and trying not to think of what is forever out of my reach.

When the doorbell rings, I consider not answering it. There are exactly three people who might come visiting now that I don't even pretend to have a girlfriend, and one of them is in hospital. That means either Backup wants to interrogate me some more, or Chris trying once again to mend our friendship. Both of them are doomed to failure: I'm never telling Backup what went on, not even if she gets out the thumbscrews and branding irons, and I daren't let Chris get close again. If I do, I'll try to get him too close.

In the end, I decide I have no alternative but to open the door. Chris has a key, after all, and I wouldn't put it beyond Backup to pick the lock if she thought I was hiding out.

Looking through the peep-hole, I see Chris standing there, nervously shifting from foot to foot. I should have known that he'd be around. He did invite me out for a drink this evening in a misguided attempt to cheer me up. I should have expected him to try again. He thinks it's his duty as my friend to look after me, and Chris can be a tenacious bugger when he thinks something needs to be done.

I open the door, and do my best to discourage him. "I thought you were going out to strut your funky stuff," I say.

Chris flashes me a patently false smile, as nervous as all hell. "I got bored with that," he says, not that he's had time to go out anywhere, "so I though I'd brighten up your life. See, I come bearing gifts."

He shoves a bottle of wine towards me. A halfway decent choice to my surprise; he is making an effort. I appreciate his concern, but it only makes this harder. I can't be his friend. I want more out of his friendship than he'd ever be prepared to give, but I'd take it regardless. Better to have nothing than that.

"My life doesn't need brightening up, Chris," I say a little sadly. Another lie he won't believe. My life does need brightening up, that's obvious even to me, but Chris can't be the one to do it. He'll only get hurt.

Chris disagrees with me vociferously, babbling in his nervousness. I start to tune him out, steeling myself to just close the door and tell him to leave me alone.

Get out of here, Keel. Get away from me before it's too late.

Then he stops himself and pushes another smile onto his face, fear in his eyes. One flash of those dimples and my feeble resolve rolls over and dies. I know he isn't going to give up, and I won't be able to keep him away in the face of his immediate pain. I try, all the same.

"You're not going to go away, are you?"

"Nope."

"You know this is a bad idea?"

"Yup."

"Just so long as you know."

I sigh to myself and let him in. This is a big mistake. I should have turned Chris away. The disappointment he would have felt is nothing compared to the shock and anger he'll feel when I ask too much, but as usual I'm too weak to resist him.

I distract him with the promise of cold beer, and regroup while he raids my fridge. I opt to hide behind my book again; if I don't look at him I won't encourage him, and I have some chance of holding myself together. Besides, the threat of a foreign language is usually enough to put Chris off entirely.

Not tonight, though. Chris launches himself onto my couch with that familiar Keel bounce and asks, "Good book?"

I grunt assent. That's a hint, Chris. I still don't think it's a good idea for you to talk to me.

"What's it about?" he asks, flatly refusing to take the hint.

"It's poetry," I tell him, exasperated.

"Yeah, but what's it about?"

Oh for God's sake, Chris, why can't you just bugger off and leave me alone? Somehow I manage not to snap at him. I know he's just persisting to get some sort of reaction out of me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him get away with it. If I start reacting, I might not stop. I manage to limit myself to an irritated sigh and a hard stare.

Before I can return to my distinctly limited delight in the works of an existentially tortured German — perhaps not the most sensible choice for taking my mind off my own tortured thoughts — Chris is at it again. "I'm glad to see Danny's been a civilising influence on you," he says.

For one terrifying moment my paranoia gains the upper hand and I think that Chris knows what Danny and I used to talk about. I have a hard job keeping the fear off my face until I regain my equilibrium and realise that he must be talking about something else. "What do you mean?"

Chris lifts his beer bottle up for my inspection. "You're stocking proper cold beer, which I'm guessing is his fault."

Oh, that. It's ironic really, I started stocking Budweiser because I knew Chris liked it, just before I conclusively proved that I shouldn't be let anywhere near him. "No, Danny is as rude about American beer as he is about American everything else."

Chris gets this pleased look on his face, something that my treacherous mind insists on labelling 'endearing.' He knows the beer was for him, he's not stupid, and now the bloody idiot is encouraged. "Thanks," he says. "I'll have to start stocking wine, I guess."

There is no way in hell that I'm intruding on Chris at home. I give my glare one last chance at discouraging him before I say something stupid.

I'm going to have to practice my discouraging glares, obviously. Chris misinterprets it as sarcasm. "Yeah, I know, you consider my taste in wine to be a health hazard. So educate me."

Just the thought of initiating Chris into the Dionysian mysteries reminds me of comfortable evenings spent sharing a bottle with Danny, talking about this and that. Being educated by him as to how to make love to Chris. Wanting to make love to Chris. Wanting to make love to Chris _now_... Fuck, no!

Bad choice of words, Curtis.

"OK, what did I say?"

I try to brush Chris off, but he's having none of it.

"Come on, Sam. You're my partner and my friend," who wants to have you writhing underneath him, and no I did not just think that, "and I've said something out of place, but you're gonna have to help me here or I'll never figure out what."

"I said it's nothing," I insist, desperately trying to get the images of my partner dancing around naked out of my head.

"The hell it is!" Chris' yell doesn't surprise me, I know how mercurial his temperament is. What is surprising is how he swallows that momentary anger and looks so lost. "Sam, we've got to talk. I can't keep walking through conversational minefields like this."

Something inside me snaps. I can't go on like this either, being so near to Chris all the time. I can't go on exerting every ounce of my self-control the whole time to avoid doing something that he'll never be able to forgive me for.

"You want to talk? Fine. But how's talking going to help when I was this close to raping you? I know how you feel about the subject, and damn it you're my partner, I'm not supposed to—"

"I'm a big boy, Sam." Chris sounds angry as he interrupts me, which would be funny if he wasn't so damn clueless. "I knew what I was getting into, that there was a risk I might have to have sex. I was ready for it. You made the right choice."

He doesn't even know what choice I made, damn it! I know how I felt, how I feel now about Morgan's attack, and I don't have half the homophobic baggage that Chris does. It would have destroyed him. _I_ would have destroyed him.

"You have no idea what rape is like!"

"And you do, I suppose?" We glare at each other, furious. Then the anger in Chris' eyes is replaced by horror, and I realise what a cretin I've been. I let my anger rule me, and now he knows.

"Oh God, you do know. Sam, I'm so sorry, I never thought..."

"That's enough, Keel." I can't take his pity. I don't want his pity. I want him, for all the wrong reasons, in all the wrong ways.

I want to hide behind my book again, but somewhere in my tirade I threw it away. Instead I hide my head in my hands, trying to block out the presence beside me. Chris will want to know all about it now, knowing him, and I'll lie to him and tell him that it's OK, that I'm over it, that it doesn't matter any more, anything except how much I wanted to put him in exactly the place that I was.

For once, my talkative colleague is silent. He just places a hand on my shoulder, and when I look up the expression on his face is so sorrowful and hesitant that he almost breaks me. He cares. It's not enough and too much at the same time, and it's all I can do not to grab him and kiss the hell out of him.

"What, no demands for the gory details?" My voice sounds bitter in my own ears, but Chris doesn't flinch. He just gives me this sad little smile and shakes his head.

"Not unless you want to. I'm here for you buddy, that's all."

Yeah, he's here and I'm grateful for it, but it doesn't begin to fill that great greedy void in my heart.

I shouldn't tell him, I shouldn't even think about it because if I start I don't know if I'll be able to stop. That would be the sensible approach. Common sense doesn't seem to have much to do with this evening, though. I'm talking before I realise it.

"It was a long time ago. Someone I foolishly trusted for a while." My partner, which makes what I'm thinking all the more unforgivable. I actually admired James Morgan for a while, I wanted to be the smooth-talking, tough secret agent he appeared to be. Now that I'm becoming him, I'd give my life to be anyone else.

"It never really stops hurting, Chris. It just sits there nibbling away at you. It... scares me." I don't think I've ever admitted that to anyone else, not even Carl. Carl knew that it hurt, but we both thought that I was strong enough to get past it. Now I know better.

"It's OK," Chris murmurs. "It'll never happen again, not while I'm here."

I can't face the quiet determination in his voice. I have to look away. He thinks he understands, but I can't tell him the rest of it. I can't tell him that he's the one in danger.

Lost in self-pity, I miss Chris' next words. I hear the underlying harshness in his voice, though, and drag my attention back to him. "I thought you just needed a little time. I didn't realise how much the whole setup must have revolted you."

My maudlin mood turns angry again, and my mouth runs away with me. "It's not like that. _I_ nearly raped _you_."

"Didn't happen."

His calmness just infuriates me more. "You don't get it, do you? After all that had happened to me, I had you in the same situation that I'd been in and I couldn't do a thing about it."

"You had no choice," he says reasonably.

"I did," I whisper. I could have struggled. I could have argued and pleaded with Declan, bought time that way. Instead, I chose to rape the man I love.

"But when it came down to it, you didn't do it."

"Only because I was stopped! If it hadn't been for Danny, I don't think I could have stopped myself, even knowing how you feel about it. I just stood there like a rabbit stuck in headlights. I was becoming Morgan, and that really scares me, Chris. I know exactly what it would have done to you, how it would have torn you up, and I... I don't think I could have lived with myself if I'd raped you. It hurts enough that I came so close. I love you too much for that."

Oh God, please tell me I didn't say that. Please tell me that Chris didn't hear it. Please tell me I didn't just confess my love to my partner, a man so homophobic he nearly decked Danny simply for breathing. Please tell me I haven't just earned his undying hatred as surely as if I had raped him.

"Couldn't happen." His voice is choked, disbelieving. I knew he could never love me back, not the way I want, but hearing the words coming from his lips is too much for me. I turn away, trying not to cry, but he grabs me roughly and forces me to look him in the eye.

"Look at me, Sam. It. Couldn't. Happen. You can't rape someone who's willing."

I... can't?

Willing?

Does he mean...?

"I love you too."

I can scarcely believe my ears. Have I really been so blind, so utterly wrong about him all this time? I ought to apologise, to ask him if he's sure, to do the hundred and one other things to make sure that we're doing the right thing. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Sensible be hanged.

I kiss him.


	6. Chapter 6

I can't believe this is happening.

I'm kissing Chris. Better yet, Chris is kissing me.

I've tortured myself with this scene for so long, imagining how it would feel to lock my lips to his and crush him to me. Now that I'm confronted with the reality of it, I find it hard to believe that the impossible really has come true.

It is true, though. It must be. I never imagined what the simple touch of his hands on my back would do to me. I never imagined how he would arch into me, or the softness of his spiky hair. I never imagined the sharp smell of his aftershave, the mustiness of his jacket, the rich scent that is uniquely Chris.

I never imagined his jacket zipper digging into my chest like that, either. You'd think that I'd have learned from Danny not to hug men wearing leather jackets.

Cursing my congenital stupidity under my breath, I gently remove Chris' jacket. He captures my lips again, deepening the kiss until I have to break off or pass out. I can touch him properly now, feeling the heat of his skin through his plain T-shirt. I trace the contours of his back, memorising the shape of him as I trail kisses along his jawline and onto his neck. Chris makes a little mewling noise that turns into a gasp when I suck hard at the pulse point. The taste of him is incredible too, more than I could have imagined. He's driving me wild, and all we've done so far is kiss!

Slowly, I remove his shirt as he unbuttons mine. There's a moment of panic as I first touch his body; am I doing this right, am I forcing him? I know what to do in theory, it's not so different from what I've done before except that I love this man so much. I don't want to hurt him and I still don't know whether I can control myself for him.

Taking my ragged courage in both hands, I crouch before Chris and kiss my way down his body. The hands running through my hair and around my shoulders give me confidence, and I tentatively start to tease his nipples. His reaction banishes my doubts, little gasps of pleasure interspersed with whispered encouragements. Stupid Curtis, I think to myself in amusement, then abandon myself to the hunt for hotspots.

All the same, I nearly lose it as I find a particularly sensitive spot. Chris moans loudly and pushes against me, and suddenly I'm back in that basement in Berlin, and I'm the one moaning, desperate to get away and shamed by my body's betrayal.

Then Chris' lips are on mine again, and the ghost of James Morgan melts away under the barrage of kisses he rains down on me. He wants this, I remind myself. I know he wants this, he told me so. He wouldn't be exploring my body with such enthusiasm and care if he didn't.

I love him. He loves me.

I want him. He wants me.

Perfect.

I want to tell him how much he means to me, but his lips are just too tempting. I kiss him again, long and hard, and drag him upwards so that we can stand and embrace. We fit together so well, our bodies moulding to each other, it's like we were meant to be together.

Eventually we have to come up for air. I pull back a little to look at my flushed and panting partner — my lover! — and am captivated by his brilliant blue eyes. There's a shyness in his gaze, as if he can't quite believe what we're doing either, but there's a hunger there too. A hunger for me.

What currently passes for my brain tries to bring a practical matter to my attention. If we're going to take this further — if? Ha! — then we'll need to get somewhere more comfortable.

"Bedroom," I say. I meant it as an suggestion, but it came out as more of an order. Chris nods all the same, smiling shyly.

He lets me lead the way, then suddenly the manic enthusiasm that I know and love takes over. Pausing only to kiss my hand, he quickly strips off his remaining clothing and lies back on the bed in all his naked glory.

Oh. My. God.

I am awestruck by the sight of him. He has made an open invitation of his body, offering me anything I want. I couldn't have imagined this love pouring off him, not if I'd tried for a million years.

I climb onto the bed, leaning over him to whisper my love again. "God, you're beautiful." Then I kiss him, worshipping this lover that I don't deserve. I feel Chris free my erection, hear him whimper as it rubs against his own hard cock, share the flush of arousal with him. I want to do this for him though, and bits and pieces of Danny's advice fall together into a plan.

Slowly I continue kissing my way down his gorgeous body, stopping just short of my goal. Then I let my hands carry on alone, mapping out the muscles of his abdomen before tracing the line from his hips to the inside of his thighs, lifting and separating his legs to give me better access. Chris moans and quivers under my touch, his cock straining up in search of contact.

Reverently, I lean in and kiss the root of his erection, nuzzling his hardness with my cheek as I do so. Chris moans loudly then whimpers again as I withdraw slightly. His hands are knotted in the sheets now, and my own fists clench in sympathetic passion as I watch his flushed features. Then I focus back on his cock, which is leaking clear pre-cum and just begging me to take him. Softly, gently, I blow across the tip.

Chris howls. I can't help but grin, and dive back down to play with his bollocks, licking the sensitive patch of skin beneath them before taking them one by one into my mouth, rolling my tongue around them. I'm pushing him closer and closer to orgasm, trying to stave off the moment of release for as long as possible. Given the way he's writhing under me, I must be succeeding.

"Sam!"

The cry is urgent, and for a moment I think I've hurt him. I shouldn't have tried that trick with his balls, I must have squeezed too hard... but the look on his face tells a different story. "Want you," he says simply.

He wants me. Me. "You've got me, Chris," I tell him huskily, putting my whole heart into it since my voice isn't being any too co-operative.

He looks impatient, almost annoyed. "In me!" he demands.

He what? He wants me to r... to fuck him? I can't! I might do.... It's what Morgan did....

It's what Chris wants me to do.

"Are you sure?" I have to know that he really wants this, that he's not just saying something he'll regret once we're done.

"Sure," he growls. "Need it." I'm far from convinced, but Chris has that stubborn look on his face that even Malone thinks twice about crossing.

I've wanted to do this for so long, but do I want it for Chris' pleasure or to claim him as Morgan claimed me? I can't tell, and I'm afraid that I'll hurt him. But I'd hurt him for sure now if I turned him down.

In the end, I do what I've done for months now. I trust Chris. If he says that he wants me to do this to him, I have to trust that he means it.

The necessary bits and pieces are in the bedside cabinet. I've always kept condoms there — Danny really needn't have bothered with the safe sex lecture, I'd heard it all while he was still in primary school — but the tube of lube is a new addition. I bought it ages ago in a fit of optimism after Danny made me, uh, practice my technique.

Chris sits up as I retrieve the supplies and gently stops me where I stand. He flashes me one of those brilliant smiles that always make my heart skip a beat, then his lips and hands are all over my body again. I finally let go, allowing myself to glory in the sensations he evokes in me. God, if I had half the skill and sensitivity that he shows to me, I wouldn't have needed Danny's help.

Somewhere along the line Chris gets my remaining clothes off. I'm not sure exactly when, I stopped noticing irrelevant little details like that some while ago. It's only when he takes the condom from my unresisting fingers and rolls it slowly down my length that I start thinking for myself again.

Chris climbs back onto the bed as I try to remember Danny's instructions. Lube. On condom. On fingers. Chris waves his arse at me, not helping at all. Concentrate on teasing a finger around his opening, trying to relax him. God, he's beautiful.

Once he's not resisting any more, once it feels right, I slip my finger inside. Chris gasps in surprise and clamps down on me. My finger is slick though, very slick, and I keep teasing him gently, loosening his muscles in preparation for something more.

Working by touch now, I let my eyes roam up Chris' back. He still shows signs of the whipping he took, fading bruises standing out darkly against his pale skin. I wish I could have taken them for him. On sudden impulse, I lean forward and kiss the expanse of his back lightly. I try to lick those bruises away, offering a silent apology that I wasn't there for him.

Chris gives one of those little moans of pleasure that I'm coming to love and relaxes a little into my touch. The sound goes straight to my groin, making it hard to think straight again. I want him, but not quite yet. He needs to be more relaxed. What can I... ah, yes.

I pull away from my partner's back a little reluctantly as the probing of my finger becomes more purposeful. I'm trying to find the little bump that got such a reaction out of Danny. If it gets anything like the same reaction out of Chris, he'll love it.

Bingo. My finger brushes over that magic spot, and Chris arches up with a cry. I take the opportunity to slip a second finger in while his brain is sorting out what his body is telling him. A moment later Chris looks over his shoulder at me, his face full of surprise and joy, and says something. "Prostate," I say, guessing that the unintelligible burbling was intended to be a question. I meant to say more, but I'm panting myself. "You like?"

He likes. Chris turns back to the pillows, relaxing under my fingers. I carry on preparing him perhaps a bit longer than I really need to, but I want to make sure that there is as little pain as I can manage when I enter him. Chris responds with more of those little animal moans of his as I introduce a third finger, stretching and stretching until he is wide enough to take me.

Before I can think too much, I ease myself into him. The sensation is overwhelming; he's so hot, so tight that I worry that I haven't prepared him enough. If I hurt him now... but Chris doesn't make any sounds of pain, just pushes back against me, forcing me deeper inside him.

Then I'm fully in, balls flush against his arse, and I freeze. The memories are back again, memories of when I was the one tied down and Morgan was riding me, of how my body betrayed me by responding to him, of what he took away from me that day. I can't do that to Chris, I can't, I've got to pull out, I've got to...

"Yeah." Chris' sigh is pure pleasure, bringing more of Danny's words to mind. This is about giving pleasure as well as receiving, he said. Chris wants this, he asked for it. The only thing I'm taking from him is what he has already offered me, what he in turn is taking from me.

Almost involuntarily, I start to move against him. Chris moans and pushes back, pulling a gasp from me in turn. I can feel his flesh rippling around me. It's incredible. He's incredible. Then I begin thrusting in earnest, trying to aim myself to press on his prostate again and again. I try to be gentle, setting a slow pace, but it's not long before my much abused self-control is once again in tatters and I do as my body demands. It feels right though. This is how we are meant to be, his cock in my hand and my cock in his arse, slamming into each other as if our lives depended on it.

I feel Chris come, the way his orgasm sweeps through his whole body and drags me with him into ecstasy. Some dim corner of my brain isn't surprised to note that my beloved partner is a screamer, he's always so full of energy that it seems natural. I didn't think that I was a screamer too, but there were two cries as we climaxed. Then again, I don't think I've ever felt such a release before.

Spent and exhausted, I roll off Chris and am immediately pulled into a hug. A hug that for once doesn't involve bits of clothing digging in painfully, just a warmth that reassures me that this is real, that all is well. Oh yes, I could get used to this.

There's still one small voice of doubt niggling away at me though, and I have to look Chris in the face to quash it. He looks shattered and awestruck. Well fucked, in other words. But is he OK? Did I do that right? Did I hurt him? "Was that... OK?"

He laughs. The bastard laughs at me, and it hurts. It's a moment before my common sense can shout down my insecurities, telling me that there's no malice in his laughter, that he's not pulling away from me or anything like that. I'm tempted to thump him anyway.

"Sorry Sam," he gasps, getting his hysterics somewhat under control, "but only you could give me the most incredible experience of my life and then ask if it was OK. No, it sure as hell wasn't OK. It was fucking awesome!" He kisses my hand and grins, love shining in his eyes. I can't stay angry in the face of those eyes, not after what he said. 'The most incredible experience of my life.' I must have done something right.

Chris, being Chris, can't leave it that of course. His grin turns impish as he adds, "And awesome fucking, too."

I try to keep my smile down to manageable proportions, but I can tell that my attempt at a long-suffering glare is a dismal failure. I can't put the effort into it while I'm still luxuriating in his response. He likes what I did to him. _I_ like what I did to him, which is even more amazing. Does life get better than this?

Chris somehow manages to look more mischievous, which is all the warning I get before he starts tickling me. I somehow doubt that protesting that I'm not ticklish will work, given how much I'm giggling already, so I return the favour. Somewhere in our struggles we start kissing again, and despite my earlier exhaustion I feel my cock twitch again in appreciation of the beauty beneath me.

"God," Chris moans, "I haven't been this horny since I was a teenager."

"Me neither." I want to make love to him all over again. I'm so amazed by all of this. I know I don't deserve someone like him, someone who l... who wants me like this. I keep hoping that I'm not going to suddenly wake up and find that this is all another tortured dream. Can he really want me like this?

"Chris, I... this isn't just about sex, is it?" I need to hear him say it. Again. I am pathetic.

Chris doesn't fool around this time, his reply is completely serious. "No, this isn't just sex. I love you, Sam. I've loved you for months. I want to be with you. I'm yours for as long as you'll have me, and nothing but nothing is going to change that."

Wow. He loves me. I may not deserve him, but he loves me all the same and I'm never letting him go.

"You'd better be very sure of that," I growl through the smile that threatens to crack my face in half. "Forever could be a very long time."

Chris beams back at me, and steals another kiss. That glint is back in his eyes though, so I'm not too surprised when he adds, "The sex is good, too."

I have to laugh. If only he knew. "You have a one track mind, you know that?"

"Yes," he says, completely unrepentant.

Then he proves it.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm lying in bed with Chris asleep here in my arms. It's all so perfect I can scarcely believe it's true. My partner, the living Energiser Bunny that I love, just curled up around me and fell asleep a few minutes ago.

I'm still too keyed up to sleep. This evening has been full of surprises, and unlike Chris I can't just accept that my dreams have come true. I have to mull over what's happened, understand what it is that we've done, before I can rest. So I'm lying here, smelling Chris' hair and listening to his heartbeat while I turn the day over in my mind.

We're in love. I love him, he loves me. It's real, I know that much. This isn't something that's going to go away. We aren't going to wake up in the morning, say thanks for the fuck and go back to what we were doing before. This is something that's going to be permanent between us.

Do I want permanent? I never used to think so. When I was at university I thought hell, I'm young, why would I want to settle down when there's so much — meaning so many girls — I haven't seen yet? I was a bit of a late bloomer, but then at home I always had to be responsible all the time, because if I didn't then who else would be?

Then I was recruited by MI6 straight from Edinburgh, and I saw entirely too much. The kind of life I led, being moved from place to place all the time, was hardly conducive to a long term relationship. In any case, I became hardened to the kind of world I moved in, and I couldn't have dragged anyone else in with me. If I actually let myself care about anyone, they could be used against me. I was too good at my job to let that happen.

In some ways, I didn't change what I was looking for in a woman. All I asked, right from the start, was a fun time with no strings. At first it was my choice, but in the intelligence service it was a matter of survival. That change should have saddened me, but it never really seemed all that important. God, I was a cold bastard then.

Then along came CI5, and I slowly started feeling again. It was frightening, but I had faced worse than gaining a little freedom. Perhaps, I thought, now might be the time to consider settling down. I started dating — even went out with Backup once — but it never felt right.

I worried that when I didn't feel anything for the girls I went out with, it had to be something wrong with me. Oh, they were fun, and we often liked each other, but it never went deeper than that. It was frustrating at times; I knew I wanted to find a real relationship, but I could never make it happen.

Now I have Chris, and I finally know what was wrong. I needed the right person to commit to, and now I've found him the rest just follows. I love my partner more deeply than I've ever loved anyone, even Mum. Committing my life to him, something I couldn't make myself do with anyone else, is as easy as breathing. As necessary as breathing, too.

So yes, I want permanent. Or rather, I want permanent with Chris. No one else has even come close to giving me the depth of feeling that he does. No one else has come close to making it real for me the way that he does with just a smile. And from what he says, from the way that he reacts to me, it's the same for him.

I'm not a fool, I know that it won't be 'happily ever after' for us. We will have our disagreements, probably even fights, all couples do. When we do, I hope I'll remember this moment now, remember how much I love him, and do my level best to get past whatever we're arguing about and back into his arms. It won't be easy, with all the stresses and strains that the job puts on us...

Oh God, the job.

Two CI5 agents — two male CI5 agents — are embarking on a long term relationship with each other. Worse yet, we're partners. We've broken the first rule so thoroughly it's frightening. Don't get emotionally involved, Malone tells us constantly. I've never been so emotionally involved in my entire life, not even when Carl was killed.

OK, Curtis, think this through carefully. Do we tell CI5 that we are gay? If this were MI6, I wouldn't so much as hint at it. For reasons that have never been clear to me, the intelligence services seem to regard homosexuality as a security risk. We would be out of a job before we even finished the sentence.

Malone, for all his shouting and his rules, never makes blanket decisions. Oh, he may sound like it from time to time, but if you actually look at what he does, everything is evaluated on its own merits. Rule eight: always check your assumptions. If I told him that I was gay — or bisexual, or whatever it is that I am — then he would consider the matter before pronouncing judgement.

What would he look at? Am I a security risk now? No more than I always was, surely. I'll still be one of his best agents, as will Chris. My new-found preference wouldn't change anything in the real world, and Malone is no more anti-gay than he is anti-women. The odds are good from that point of view.

What if we don't tell him? Not an appealing proposition, frankly. Malone, being Malone, will find out eventually. He always does. In the mean time, we'll be tip-toeing around and trying not to be noticed. Prime fodder for blackmailers. When Malone does find out, he'll spot that straight away. We will have made ourselves a vulnerability for CI5, and he won't stand for that.

OK, so we tell Malone we're gay. Do we tell him we're in love?

On the face of it, it's a ludicrous suggestion. While all the same arguments apply against keeping quiet, we are flying in the face of Malone's every utterance. I doubt that he'd fire us — all modesty aside, we are his best people — but there is a serious risk that he would split us up. He would see the danger of me putting Chris ahead of the mission, and breaking up our partnership would solve that one.

I don't want that to happen. I hate the thought of leaving Chris's safety in anyone else's hands, however competent they might be. I don't want another partner, someone I don't trust as thoroughly as Chris to keep me safe. I've finally found someone I can trust on the job, I doubt I'll find another so soon.

So, do I really have the guts to live up to Malone's standards? Would I be able to abandon Chris to salvage a mission? Though my stomach churns at the thought, I think I could. I'd run through every other possibility first, including abandoning myself to let Chris succeed, but if creativity and bloody-mindedness failed us both, in the end I could force myself to be a professional.

As to how to convince Malone of this, all I have to fall back on is my record. I've been in love with Chris for months already, and I haven't let it affect my judgement yet. I have still let him walk into dangerous situations alone when I had to be elsewhere, handling another part of the case. I haven't liked it, and I've become very good at finding ways around the problem, but it has happened.

Thinking about it, Chris probably has much the same argument to put forward as I do. Assuming that his love for me didn't blossom forth just a few hours ago, which seems a safe bet under the circumstances, then he's been wrestling with the same dilemma. He's had to make some nasty calls, and I'm still alive, but not once has a mission been jeopardised for my sake.

We have both put work ahead of our own desires, so we can continue to do it. QED. Despite his gruff exterior, Malone is a fair enough man to actually consider that. We have a decent chance of persuading him to leave us as a team. Even if that fails, we'll still be working together, just not as closely as I'd like. I think I could stand that, if I had to.

Conversely, trying to hide our relationship would make us even more of a liability to CI5 than just hiding our orientation. If we really felt that strongly about staying together, what does that say about our ability to be objective, to do the right thing for the mission? What does that say about how well we could withstand blackmail?

Could we hide it for any length of time anyway? I doubt it. Oh, I'm sure we could keep our hands and eyes to ourselves in the office and out in the field, but what about our occasional social evenings? What if one of us gets injured? I know I'm good, but could I really keep the fear off my face sitting by Chris' hospital bed? It was hard enough when I didn't know he loved me back.

We tell Malone everything. In the end, all the alternatives are worse.

It's a relief, frankly. Despite all my training, I'm tired of hiding my life away. I don't really want to hide what I have with Chris anyway. I'm proud of him, proud that he loves me, and I honestly couldn't care less what the rest of the world thinks of us.

Good. I understand where I am, what I'm doing, and I know which way we need to go. I can sleep now. Finally, I can let go of the day and get some rest. I'll need to be on top form when we face up to Malone.

I'll tell Chris in the morning.


End file.
